


Backhand

by Raylou



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Anxiety, M/M, Martial Arts, Memes, Minor Original Character(s), Slow Burn, Sports, Unreliable Narrator, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-07-22 14:25:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 79,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7442665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raylou/pseuds/Raylou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>College freshman Keith joins Voltron, a newly-formed martial arts club, to help manage his growing anxiety, and befriends Lance, an infuriating yet intriguing boy with an absurd love for memes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. push kick

Keith didn’t know what he was doing.

He had trudged through Weekend of Welcome on his own, unable to find any of the friends-at-first-sight his parents had enthused about during the winding drive to the small campus of Leon University. It was built in the hills of Altea, an upper class community of tree-lined private roads, sparse street lamps, and old money.

His father had said that life would brighten in college. The haze that had plagued Keith since graduation would dissipate and reveal the path to a healthy future of career climbing and stock options and global networks.

Classes wouldn’t start until Monday, but Keith already knew his father’s words wouldn’t come true. Neither would his mother’s promises of finding someone special in this clusterfuck of a college sponsored block party.

“I met your father on that night,” she had said. “Maybe you will meet your college sweetheart. Your future wife.”

Keith had known _that_ wouldn’t come true before riding down the narrow two-lane road to campus.

He stood apart from the gyrating bodies on the underclassman quad. The pop playing from the DJ’s portable speakers was unfamiliar, but everyone knew the lyrics. The crowd roared about parties in the USA and everything being okay. Keith wasn’t familiar with parties or being okay with anything.

The last time he’d felt relatively okay was in middle school. Everything had been handed to him. His mistakes had been pardoned. Now….

He stood on the edge of the quad, tucked into the shadow of a squat tree. His phone was in his dorm because one of the WoW rules was to forego electronics in favor of face-to-face interactions. He’d had precisely zero notable interactions. Thanking a stranger for holding open the door to the restrooms was the best he’d had. It hadn’t been forced. Completely natural, like waving hello to a fellow dog walker as he passed with his two Yorkies straining on their leashes.

He missed his dogs. He missed his family. They were a two-hour drive away, but he’d been ordered not to return home for the first semester.

“Biggest regret was letting my little girl return home two weeks after school started,” one of his mother’s coworkers had said. “She got too attached and now she’s having anxiety about moving to the East Coast for a job. She’s not backing out, thank God. That’s all I can ask for now.”

His mother had taken the advice seriously and made Keith sign a contract binding him to Altea and its surrounding community. He hated his mother’s coworker.

“Lions, can I get a roar?” the DJ shouted over the throbbing music.

“ _ROOOOOOOAR_ ,” the crowd said.

“Louder!”

“ _ROOOOOOOAR.”_

“One more time!”

“ _ROOOOOOOAR._ ”

Keith was embarrassed for them all. He went toward his dorm in Mane Hall, third floor, room 315, which faced the underclassman quad. The motion-sensor lights were off until he triggered them; nobody had been in the hall for a while.

He pulled his key out from the high school lanyard hanging under his sweater. He’d meant to purchase an LU lanyard but had been too disturbed about his inability to click with anyone to do anything but struggle over his next move.

He pushed into his dorm, hating how tiny it was. He had only brought the essentials to campus and put his desk and printer underneath his bunk, but his room was already cramped.

All the summer heat was trapped inside, stagnant because the windows were to be closed when nobody was inside, as per dorm safety rules. Keith didn’t know where the AC and heater controls were in this rat-sized room and he wasn’t bothered enough to poke around for them.

He yanked open his blinds and—

His window was smack above the block party. All his lights were on. Everyone could see him.

People pointed at his room, the only one in Mane Hall that obviously had someone in it.

He tucked on the rusty window locks and shoved open the glass panes. He reached to draw his blinds, but not before the DJ caught onto what people were pointing at.

“Who is this? A dissenter?” the DJ said.

The crowd booed.

“Hey, hey. Knock it off,” the DJ warned.

“Come down!” someone shouted.

Keith was frozen. Too many faces looked up at him. Too many fingers pointed.

“Down! Down! Down!” the crowd chanted.

“You got it,” the DJ said. He dropped a heavy beat that had everyone screaming and bouncing.

Keith snapped his blinds over the window. Nobody could see him, but everyone could see it was his room with the open windows. The blinds shifted to let in a breeze. Flashing strobe lights and disco dots filtered into his room.

“Fuck,” Keith said.

Heavy knocks fell on his door.

“Hey, hey, open up!” a voice said, a weird mix of boy and teen.

He went to the door. “What do you want?”

“Please let me in. I need help. They’re coming after me and—”

Keith opened the door. “What happ—?”

A brown-skinned boy with short, dark hair shoved through, sweeping Keith to the side. He slammed the door shut and locked it.

“Excuse me?” Keith said.

The boy turned, resting his back on the door and sighing in relief. His dark eyes were large and expressive.

“You just saved my life, hero. What’s your name?” All the weight in the boy’s voice was replaced by a playful lilt.

Keith had no proper response. There was no proper response. “What the hell’s your problem?”

The boy held a finger to his lips. A _Transformers_ bandage was wrapped around its middle.

“Shhh!” he said. “He’ll hear you. Walls are the thinnest in Mane.”

He pulled out Keith’s desk chair and sat carefully. “I live downstairs but I don’t want him to know, just in case he finds me.”

“So he’ll find me instead, whoever he is?” Keith growled.

“ _He_ is a very feisty walking dildo. Don’t fuck with him.” The boy kicked back in the chair, long legs taking up too much space. He scratched his belly through his gray shirt. “I hate Mane. It has the smallest rooms because it’s the oldest building. AC is shit. Heater is shit. Rich-ass white people won’t bother to put money into upgrading it.”

Keith had seen many incarnations of this boy in his high school, all being egocentric hotheads who thought people hung onto their every word. He thought most would attend party colleges or public campuses near the city, not a Christian school where students ground against each other in the open while a DJ reminded them to leave room for Jesus. Keith had been stupefied to see a group of students put space between them, as though Jesus’ spiritual presence was grinding with them. Christians did everything with Jesus, Keith had figured.

“Don’t be shocked, because it’s true.” The boy cracked a crooked smile “The school blows our tuition on the athletics department. The dorms and classrooms won’t be touched until the next big earthquake levels out the campus.”

A muscle jumped in Keith’s jaw. “Get out or I’ll call public safety.”

“Calm down, calm down.” The boy lifted his hips off the chair to slide his phone out his back pocket. “My name’s Lance. What’s yours?”

Keith didn’t bat an eye at his deliberate change of topic. “Doesn’t matter. Now, get out.”

“Doesn’t look like you’ve got much to do here.” Lance looked around, clearly displeased by the minimalism. “No TV? What’s wrong with you?”

“I’ve got a laptop.”

“Not the same. Hey, take a breath. I’ve never seen someone with your coloring turn so red, but you’re managing it. Pretty cool.” Lance flicked through whatever was on his phone. “Let me check with my associate, see if he’s left. I’ll be out of your mullet as soon as I get the all clear.”

“Who is _he_?”

“A walking dildo. Didn’t I tell you?”

“I know you’re joking.”

Lance rested his phone on his lap. “Of course I’m joking. I pissed off this guy and he went after me. I ran, he took chase, I parkoured, he got lost, I took shelter here, and…” He lifted his phone. Smiled. “…he gave up. All clear. Thanks, bud.”

“You’re welcome. You can leave now.”

“I wasn’t thanking you, hero.”

Keith gestured to the door. “Exit.”

“That is,” Lance agreed. “It is also an entrance.”

“Out. Now.”

Lance saluted Keith as he left, wiggling his fingers. “Enjoy your night, hero.”

After locking Lance out, Keith slipped his laptop out of its foamy cover and logged onto the WiFi with his student ID and password. The connection was great—the first wonderful thing that had happened this weekend aside from not throwing up during the Farewell BBQ. He opened to his bookmark in a relatively old shounen manga about man-eating giants.

“Hero,” he murmured.

It was a stupid nickname. Meaningless. Nobody had given him one before, stupid or not. Hero bugged him almost as much as Lance did. Lance, true to his name, was stuck in Keith’s thoughts, poking around with that dumb smile.

Keith was the victim of a forced visit, not a hero.

“Let’s take it back,” the DJ said. “Can we get some soulja boys on stage?”

The crowd screamed.

It was nine-thirty, ninety minutes from the end of WoW and its social horrors. WoW was the defining moment of every college experience, Keith’s father had said. He had made most of his long term friendships during his WoW. Some he’d stayed in touch with, even while completing NYU’s MBA program.

Keith’s mother had made most of her friends in her classes—friendships of convenience that transformed into years of close-knit relationships. But she hadn’t been alone during WoW; she had met Keith’s father and a few friends while dancing.

They’d be disappointed to know Keith had spent his weekend mostly in the back of his WoW group, waiting for someone to start a conversation with him. That was how he’d made friends before college. It had worked from pre-k to high school, even at his martial arts school.

_“Watch me crank dat soulja Boy. Then Superman dat ho. Now watch me yuuuuuu.”_

For how ridiculous the lyrics were, the music was catchy.

Footsteps pounded up to his door. Rapid-fire knocks sounded off.

“The damsel requires your assistance,” Lance said in a British accent.

“Of course you’re back,” Keith muttered.

He opened the door a crack, offering Lance enough space to see his displeased expression.

“It hasn’t been ten minutes,” Keith said.

“I didn’t know I was being timed.” Lance nudged the door open wider, ignoring Keith’s deathly glare. “The dildo is back. I gotta hide.”

Keith closed his eyes, soothing the headache starting to poke behind his eyeballs. “Stop calling him a dildo.”

“It’s better than ‘human.’ C’mon, let me in.”

Keith opened his eyes. Lance was smiling like this was a game. He wanted to close his eyes again.

“Why can’t you go to your room?”

“Because I can’t. Let me in,” Lance said as he pushed on the door.

Keith stepped into the doorway, bumping his chest against Lance’s.

“Come on, man,” Lance said. He checked both ends of the hall. “I took down all the name cards but that won’t stop him. He’ll keep searching.”

Keith’s thoughts poofed into smoke. “What?”

“I took the name cards off all the Mane dorms. My associate helped, but I got the most so I claim credit.”

“Why would you—What is wrong with you?” Keith hissed.

Lance motioned for him to quiet his voice. “He knows I live in Mane, not where. He’s checking for occupied rooms and I need you to hide me.”

“Turn off the lights in your room.”

“It’s too risky. I have to stay here.” Lance pushed on the door.

Keith pushed back. “He’ll eventually find you. You can’t hide forever.”

“He’s an upperclassman. He’ll only be on campus for classes and parties. I just need to hold him off until WoW ends.” Lance pressed his palms together in front of his chest. “Have mercy on a damsel. Do as Jesus would.”

Keith had grown up in an agnostic household. His knowledge of Jesus was limited to martyrdom.

“I’m not Christian,” Keith said.

“Just let me”—Lance shoved Keith into the room—“in.”

The door swung shut. Lance whistled joyfully and locked it.

“You should tell me your name.” Lance leaned against the door with a dorky smile.

Keith wanted to squeeze his hands around that dark neck and strangle the air from his lungs.

Lance chuckled. “You look like my tae kwon do instructor right before he goes Bruce Lee on my ass.”

Keith loosened his fists, shocked. “You do tae kwon do?”

“I’ve been training since I was three. Got myself a black belt.” Lance radiated with pride.

Nostalgia chilled Keith’s veins. His last lesson had been the day before WoW. He had sworn to his master instructor that he would return during vacations, but that was a long way from now.

“I started when I was ten,” Keith said, remembering how excited he had been to punch and kick people. “I have a black belt, too.”

Lance’s reaction was like the human equivalent of a firecracker exploding. He burst at Keith, grabbing his t-shirt’s collar. “Join my—”

Keith grabbed Lance’s right hand and twisted it outwards, forcing the wrist into an unnatural angle.

“Taptaptap,” Lance breathed, hunching over his wrist.

“Don’t. Touch. Me.”

“ _You’re_ touching me,” Lance said, squeaking on his last syllable when Keith pressed on the hold.

“Submit,” Keith growled.

“I’m tapping out. See? Tap tap.” Lance patted Keith’s arm.

Keith released him. He stood straight and massaged his wrist. “I was saying you should join the martial arts club my friends and I are starting.”

Keith didn’t see how Lance already had friends and advisors to form a club; Move In had been yesterday.

Lance continued, “The local _dojang_ is willing to host our meetings, provided we wipe the mats afterwards. We’ll also be given discount prices for classes. You’ve trained with weapons, right?”

“Of course.”

Keith loved weapons. Especially swords. He only used them in weapon forms, never in practice against someone.

“They have a weapons class taught by an arnis master. Lots of sticks, knives, and improvised weapons. I asked if she could perform a weapons form with a stool. She gave me a private show. It was _lit._ ”

“On fire?”

Lance backed into the desk chair and plopped down. “Um, no? It was freaking amazing. She was swinging it around like it was made to be weaponized.”

Keith’s experience with arnis—or eskrima, as his master instructor called it, was limited to sticks and knives.

“You want to join. I see it in your eyes. Sparkle, sparkle.” Lance twiddled the fingers of the hand Keith had twisted.

“Are other styles represented?”

“The dojang teaches tae kwon do, but the club celebrates all martial arts. We’ll teach each other, like one happy family.” Lance held his hands to his chest and swayed as he softly sang, _“We are family. I got all my sisters with me. We are family. Get up ev’rybody—”_

“How many members?”

“Three, not including me and the two advisors.”

“When do we meet?”

“We? You’re already part of us.” Lance cupped a hand over his heart. “I’m touched.”

“Answer the question.”

Lance gasped and mock flinched. “Bossy. I’d take you more seriously if you didn’t have a raccoon on your head.”

“What?” Keith touched his hair. “This is a mullet.”

“Raccoon isn’t a hairstyle, it’s—Wait, maybe it is.” Lance puzzled over that for a moment, stroking his hairless chin and looking at the white ceiling. “Yeah, I think I’ve seen it before.”

Keith leaned against the wall, now understanding why other freshmen had brought beanie bags and fashion seats with their luggage and boxes. He could sit on his bed and overlook Lance, but that was…weird. Standing at the far wall while chatting with an unwanted visitor was weird, too.

Having Lance in his room was weirdest of all. He had forced his way inside two times, taking Keith’s seat without permission. He didn’t even know Keith’s name.

Lance took out his phone and slumped in the chair, fiddling on his phone. Keith just watched. A few minutes passed, or maybe it was seconds that stretched too long because Keith was doing nothing but puzzling over Lance’s existence.

“You still didn’t tell me your name,” Lance said, continuously dragging his thumb over his phone screen as though nothing was holding his interest.

“You didn’t see my name card when you took it down?”

“That was before I knew I was coming in here, and I can’t remember names to save my life.” Lance’s dark eyebrows descended in frustration. “I fucked up the name game in my WoW group, called some white guy Pablo. He flipped shit and called me Carlos.”

“Oh.”

Keith hadn’t researched LU’s demographics or even Altea’s, knowing they were mostly white and conservative from his parents’ stories. He knew what that entailed, that it would be a huge culture shock from his heavily Asian hometown, and he hadn’t wanted to come here. But his parents had legacy, and his grades and martial arts history had earned him a hefty scholarship.

“Do you want to be here?” Keith said.

“Yeah, sure.” Lance hadn’t stopped scrolling, not for a second.

“My name’s Keith.”

Lance smiled, still scrolling. “Keith, will you join my club?”

He disliked Lance and didn’t think he’d ever enjoy his company, but he missed martial arts. The other members might be more tolerable.

“Only if I get to spar against you.”

Lance dropped his phone on his lap and pumped his hands in the air. “Woot woot! Don’t get pissed when I beat your ass. What’s your number?”

Keith recited it and Lance saved it to his phone.

“You have GroupMe? No? Not surprised. Download it. I’ll add you to the club chat. This is gonna be good.” Lance cackled and tapped on his phone. “You have a ride?”

“To where?”

“A car. Do you have a car? Yeah? Good. I hate carpooling. Makes me sweat.”

Keith took his phone from his bunk and downloaded GroupMe. He was already in the “Voltron Squad” chat with—he poked to the sidebar—six others. He opened the “members” tab and skimmed over the profile images to read the names: Allura, Coran, Hunk, Keith, Lance, Pidge, Shiro. Half the profiles had a blank photo. He paused on Lance’s photo.

“Are you looking at my profile picture?” Lance said.

“Yes, and it’s disgusting.”

Keith hated it. Lance was smirking at the camera, his arm snaked around the hourglass waist of a half-naked woman on the Las Vegas Strip.

“You think you’re holier than me?”

Keith exited the app. “I have more respect.”

“Why?” The way he said it suggested he could confidently counter any response.

Someone knocked on the door.

“Who’s there?” Keith said, grateful to escape a question he couldn’t answer.

“Tod Harper. You don’t know me.” The deep voice prickled Keith’s skin.

He knew why when Lance started tiptoeing to closet.

“Walking dildo,” he whispered, eyeing Lance.

 _No,_ Lance mouthed.

“Hang on,” Keith said, gesturing for Lance to hide flush against the wall; when the door opened, it would block Lance from Tod’s view.

He grasped the doorknob and schooled his face into a neutral expression. He opened the door.

“Good evening,” Keith said, stepping a little out of his room to suggest that Tod wasn’t welcome inside. “How are you doing?”

Tod was a buff guy. Muscles on muscles stuck out of his thin t-shirt sleeves. He didn’t look like an undergrad.

“You seen this guy?” His voice rumbled Keith’s bones.

He shoved his iPhone in Keith’s face. Keith leaned back to better see Lance’s crisp senior year photo. His smile was crooked, as it always was, and Keith was already sick of seeing it everywhere. One of his eyebrows was cocked by the smallest degree.

“Haven’t seen him. I think I’d remember if I did.”

“He’s got that face,” Tod said, squinting at his phone. “Irritating but impossible to forget.”

Keith grimaced. “He looks like the type to leer at girls down at the block party.”

“Oh, he is.”

They said quick goodbyes and Keith wished him luck on his search.

“I do _not_ leer at girls.” Lance slammed out of Keith’s closet, kicking out shoes and sandals as his glare burned holes into Keith’s face. “And my face is _drop dead gorgeous_ , like my mama says.”

“Why’s Tod after you?”

Lance’s laser eyes powered down. He started gathering Keith’s scattered footwear. “I hit on his girlfriend.”

“You are ridiculous.”

Keith took over for Lance, storing his footwear in the neat rows his mother had taught him to worship when he was a child and couldn’t fit a shoe rack in his childhood closet.

“I thought she was into me,” Lance said.

“Is she an upperclassman, too?” Keith snapped over his shoulder.

“Probably. Why do you care so much?”

Keith sighed. He rubbed away the sleep creeping into his eyes.

“I’m tired. I want to sleep but the party’s on for another hour.” Keith checked his phone. “More than an hour.”

Lance was baffled. “But it’s not even ten.”

Keith went through his night routine, brushing and flossing, washing his face, combing his hair, and Lance watched in between tapping his phone and staring at the blank wall in front of him.

After Keith threw his nightclothes on his bed, he pointedly looked at Lance without a word. His expression conveyed exactly what he meant. Lance stood, pocketing his phone.

“Night,” Keith said.

“Mmmh.”

The door locked behind Lance, Keith finally had the room to himself. He changed his shirt—and someone knocked.

Energy zipped through his blood. He was going to _kill_ him.

He yanked open the door, fumbling with the lock in his rush, and was greeted by an empty hallway and Lance’s echoing laugh. He stepped into the hall. Lance was jogging to the stairwell. He looked back, stuck his tongue out and puffed his cheeks.

Keith ran at him with no clear intention.

“Oh, fuck!” Lance laughed, his expression flashing with the briefest second of horror.

Lance sprinted down the stairs. Keith half-sprinted half-tumbled after him, skipping steps entirely and bouncing off the walls.

They exploded through the doors and onto the quad. Lance went for the block party. If he made it, Keith would lose him.

Keith pumped his arms harder, stretched his legs further—but Lance was faster. He stopped at the edge of the dancing crowd. A group of girls noticed him standing by. One of them giggled and gestured him over. _No thanks,_ he mouthed through a fake smile.

He went to Mane’s central, double-door entrance and paused. His key. He’d taken off his lanyard when he changed his shirt.

“Ohhhhh.” He tugged on his hair. “Fuuuuuuck.”

Public safety. They would help.

“Looks like Dissenter is out of his cave,” the DJ said, pausing the music.

The crowd booed the silence. Keith didn’t dare look back. He faced the doors.

“Fire up that loud. Another round of shots,” the DJ said.

The crowd exploded, “TURN DOWN FOR WHAT.” And the music dropped.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to pound his fist into Lance’s smirking face.

First, he needed his key. His WoW leader had warned to keep in on at all times; going outside without it was like walking around naked.

He looked for a public safety officer, trying not to draw attention to himself. The Dissenter. Strange that he’d been given two nicknames in one night.

The crowd was wild, thrashing to the hypnotic beat of the song. Shouts and whistles popped at the center of the quad as a boy rode the crowd’s raised hands to the stage.

A public safety officer approached the stage, fury crossing her eyebrows. Keith waited for her to drill into the DJ that crowd surfing had to be discouraged. The crowd voiced dissent in a crescendo of booing.

A few minutes later, Keith was in his room. He showed the officer his ID. She made a call to confirm he was the occupant, and then he was blessedly on his own.

He finished changing into his nightclothes. There wasn’t a point in sleeping now that he was wide awake after that chase. He resumed his manga reading, then saw the new text lighting up his phone.

 **Lance: Bet you're not sleepy anymore. :)**   **You’re welcome.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> songs referenced are "party in the usa" - miley cyrus; "crank that" - soulja boy; "turn down for what" - dj snake, lil jon; "we are family" - sister sledge. manga referenced is "shingeki no kyojin" - hajime isayama


	2. cat stance

WoW officially ended on Sunday but none of the events was mandatory, and the traveling ban on freshmen was lifted. The WoW leaders encouraged everyone to balance their on-campus and off-campus activities, but even they knew most freshmen had plans to explore the extended community—specifically the almost-connected downtowns of Altea and its southern neighbor: Galra.

Keith woke in the late morning after a dreamless nine hours of sleep. He had stayed up late reading manga, waiting for sleep to encroach on his adrenaline. It wasn’t until 1 a.m. that he thought he could fall asleep. He lay awake for an hour, poised on the edge of consciousness, before tumbling into darkness.

Breakfast was served in the kitchen for another hour, so he tugged on shorts and a tee and walked over. The kitchen was large for a small school, the fresh food surprisingly appetizing. Meals might turn out to be the best part of his days. He sent his parents a photo of his fruit-dappled oatmeal.

He hadn’t been able to eat much yesterday or the day before; his stomach had been shaken by the shock of suddenly transitioning to the bottom of the college pyramid.

**Mom: Looks yummy! Who are you eating with?**

His stomach pitted. His parents had wanted him to register for a double or triple room. The thought of sharing close quarters turned his stomach into lead. The night of the deadline for roommate selection, he had argued with his parents and convinced them to let him take a single room. His argument was that he was an introvert who needed his own space to recharge.

“I’ll socialize, I promise,” he had said.

His father had been skeptical, but his mother mentioned how small single rooms were and how Keith would go insane if he didn’t leave.

“You’ll spend most your time outside,” his mother had said, smiling as she went on to recollect her glowing past.

Her golden days weren’t behind her; she was a bestselling graphic novelist who had amassed an impressive Internet following. She was the exception to the “art is not a practical career” rule Keith’s father vehemently believed.

“Succeeding in the art industry means acting as a businessman,” his father had sternly said during a family game night several years ago. “Your work is nothing if you don’t market it. Your mother applied her marketing degree to her art and turned it into a business. If you can’t do that, you’ll become a starving artist.”

Keith’s stomach rumbled a warning of impending anxiety. He pushed his tray away.

The cafeteria was dotted with students, everyone belonging to a pair or group. Keith was the only sitting alone. He glanced at his blackened phone screen.

Sundays were his mother’s break day. At this time she was probably sitting on the recliner in the living room, reading the week’s bestselling novel, checking her phone every few minutes for messages. He wondered if she knew he was the only one at the table in the back of the cafeteria.

He sent a text to the family chat: **_I’m alone, but I joined a martial arts club last night. One of the members hung out in my room last night._**

**Mom: Awesome! Are you friends?**

**_He’s okay._** Keith would drag the smirk off Lance’s face and onto the ground when they sparred. **_There’s three other members, though. It’s a new club._**

**Dad: That’s excellent! It should keep you in shape for when you return to the Academy. HM Yumiko already misses you. Are the leadership positions already taken?**

**_I’ll find out later. I’m going to explore Altea. Bye._ **

He put away his tray and dishes in the small alcove labeled “DISH RETURN,” then went back to his dorm.

There were information sessions on the major student organizations in the assembly rooms throughout campus, none which interested Keith.

His Toyota Camry was parked behind Mane Hall, dropped off by a tow truck during Move In. It would’ve cost his parents several hundred if the owner of the tow-truck company wasn’t the good friend of his Aunt Kazue.

He looked through the thick pamphlet of local attractions provided in his WoW folder. Nothing called to him.

His room seemed to shrink on him. He couldn’t stay here. There was a small shopping center ten minutes from campus. He could wander the shops and get a better feel of the community, maybe run into a classmate and have a conversation.

“You go to LU? Dude, me too. You a freshman?” Keith would say. Then, “Cool, so am I. What’re you majoring in? I’m undeclared.” They’d continue talking and then Keith would have his first phone number of the year.

Keith drove his hand-me-down car to the Altea Square and coasted around the four-sided parking lot for a spot. He waited for a Porche to pull out of a shaded corner spot and parked next to the midnight blue BMW to the right.

He entered the nearby Safeway, thinking he’d find a few grocery-shopping LU students milling around. It was crowded and chilly. The Safeway back home was larger and warmer. There were familiar faces, too. Keith’s stomach twisted as he made a circuit of the perimeter.

“Hey man, nice hair.”

Keith turned toward the friendly voice, stomach unclenching.

“Me?” he said, pointing at himself.

The boy who’d complimented him was resembled the fat and popular Filipino kid Keith had gone to high school with. They had the same warm eyes, wide girth, and huge smile. This boy’s skin was a deeper brown, and the orange sash around his forehead lent him an adventurous vibe.

“Who else has a killer mullet in here?”

Keith checked the people around them.

“No one.” The boy laughed and it warmed Keith’s insides.

“Do you go to LU?” Keith said.

“I’m a sophomore this year. Are you a freshman? You don’t seem familiar with the area. Your eyes are doing this.” The boy darted his eyes left to right in anxious fashion, hunching forward with his hands in his cargo shorts’ pockets.

Keith stood straighter. “Yeah, I’m a freshman.”

“Where are you from?”

“Cupertino. It’s…very different here.” Keith glanced at the white teens clustered in front of the frozen juice aisle.

The boy nodded, eyes saying he understand exactly what Keith meant.

“What’s your name?” the boy said.

“Keith. You’re…?”

“Call me Hunk.” Hunk flexed an arm and said rather loudly, “Because I’m hunky.”

One of the boys at the juice aisle wolf-whistled. “Oh, yeah.”

Hunk faced him and flexed both arms, making the group laugh. The boy who had whistled pretended to swoon.

“Not everyone can handle…” Hunk kissed his flexed bicep. He flicked a smoldering look at the boy. “…the _Hunk_.”

Laughs peppered the air, both from the teens and surrounding customers. Keith was dumbstruck. He clenched his jaw shut to keep it from dropping, but his eyes must’ve been saucers.

Nobody was uncomfortably laughing, trying to distill an awkward atmosphere. Hunk swiveled in his pose, heightening the laughter.

The teens left, throwing smiles and waves over their shoulders at Hunk.

“Today’s a great day,” Hunk said.

Keith tried to smile. Something was tugging at his stomach again.

“You all right?” Hunk said, face starting to show concern.

“Yeah, I just….” Keith pulled out his phone and opened the Voltron chat in GroupMe, showing Hunk the chat roster.

“Keith!” Hunk exclaimed. “You’re the new Keith, the one Lance was talking about! There was never an old Keith—the club’s just started—but you’re the new one! Man, that’s great. The gang’s gonna love you. Actually, we haven’t decided if we’re a gang or a squad. We’re still arguing over it. You have a black belt in tae kwon do, like me and Lance? We trained in the same _dojang_ in Fremont. Fremont Academy.”

Keith was lagging in his comprehension of Hunk’s verbal explosion. “You and Lance trained together?”

“We also went to high school together.” Hunk crossed his fingers. “This is our bond. We’re tight like this.”

Keith couldn’t connect Hunk to Lance. They were too different.

“How’d you end up here together?” Keith said.

“We didn’t plan it, but the First Gen program called to me, and Lance….” He looked unsure if he should go on. “I think you should ask him yourself. It’s complicated.”

If complicated meant personal, Keith didn’t think Lance would share anything, especially if it was something that’d characterize him with a weakness.

“You’ll meet the others at the first meeting. Shiro says it’ll be sometime next week. He’s the president.”

Shiro was also the leader of the GroupMe chat, indicated by the blue crown icon on his blank profile icon.

“Have you looked through the chat?” Hunk said, grinning like there was something funny about it.

Keith shook his head.

“You should. Everyone texts like they talk.” Hunk smiled tenderly.

Keith had seen the look many times when his mother spoke of her college years. She wore her expressions openly, unashamed to let others know she was sad or angry; when she went back to the beginning of her adult years, her fondness showed clear as crystal.

The club wasn’t Hunk’s past—it was his present and future, and it was already close to his heart. Lance had called it a family. Perhaps it really was. Hunk and Lance had known each other for years, and it sounded like they were already familiar with the rest of the club.

Maybe this wasn’t just a club of interests. It was friends coming together after high school.

“I’m the only newcomer?” Keith said.

“We won’t know until the Involvement Fair next month, but as of now, yeah. You’re the new guy. The club has just been officiated, but it’s been in the making since…” Hunk looked toward his brain and mouthed numbers. “March, I think.”

That had been six months ago.

Something vibrated. Hunk fished out his phone from his shorts’ deep pocket and chuckled joyfully at the caller ID before answering.

“Yellow,” he said through a mischievous grin. He laughed and turned partially from Keith. “You started it.”

Keith read the labels on the Safeway Signature sparkling water shelved to his left. The yellow sale sign said “10/$10” and he contemplated buying ten even though he hated sparkling water.

“You already know Lance,” Hunk was saying into the phone, turning further from Keith. “Don’t get mad at him. Your man’s right in front of me, actually. He’s super chill.”

Hunk toyed with his sash’s knot on the back of his head. His voice pitched lower—less playful, more serious. “I got an app notification that he’d been added. Why would—?”

Hunk sized Keith with his eyes, calculating a threat he didn’t seem to believe in. Keith didn’t think whoever was on the other end of the line was pleased that he’d been added to the chat.

“Did you attack Lance?” Hunk said with a tinge of disappointment.

Keith’s jaw dropped. Why the hell would he attack—? He remembered the collar defense he had executed.

He really was going to bash Lance’s face in.

“Did he tell you that? Because that’s absolutely not what happened. He attacked _me._ First, he barged into my room and demanded I hide him from this upperclassman he pissed off. _Two times._ He did that _two times._ I kept telling him to get out and he wouldn’t listen. Second, he grabbed my collar for no reason. I had to defend myself, so I—”

“Executed a wrist release,” Hunk said knowingly, eyebrows drawing together like he had pieced together a puzzle. “Then he asked you to join the club.”

“Yeah….” Keith said. “Exactly.”

Hunk sighed into the phone. “Pidge, remember that joke Lance made about test-driving club members? It wasn’t a joke.”

A scream of rage burst from the phone. Hunk held it away from his ear.

“I am so sorry.” Hunk pressed a fist to his palm, which cupped his phone, and bowed. “So, so sorry. We didn’t think he’d actually do it.”

“He was testing me,” Keith said, deadpan because he couldn’t make himself care about Lance and his stupid ideas.

He should’ve done a double-wrist defense and twisted both Lance’s wrists in opposite directions, or trapped Lance’s forearms against his chest with one arm while swinging his other arm over to elbow Lance in the neck. He’d keep an arm in possession so when Lance fell over, he’d twist it behind his back and manipulate him into shoving his face into the carpet. “Say ‘uncle,’” he’d growl, and Lance would mumble his submission into the ground.

Hunk repeated apologies and bowed again.

“Don’t worry about it,” Keith said, motioning for Hunk to stop bowing.

“You’ll stay?” Hunk’s eyes reminded Keith of his Yorkies’ big, round ones.

“Of course.” Keith wouldn’t leave until he got his sparring match against Lance.

“Sweet! He’s staying,” Hunk told Pidge. He stuck out a fist to Keith, who bumped it.

Hunk made an explosive sound and flashed open his fist. He mimicked the fizzling of a dying firework and wriggled his fingers.

Keith copied him—minus the dramatic sound effects.

“We have a special handshake, too, but Lance will teach you that. He’s picky about our greetings.” Hunk shook his head with a gentle smile, then turned aside to talk into the phone in a low voice that Keith couldn’t pick apart for words.

Keith considered buying the sparkling water again. It could be an ice breaker, he thought, if he walked down his dorm hall and gave bottles to his floormates. He’d introduce himself, say he hadn’t done so earlier because he had been down with a stomach illness during WoW, and they’d ask if he was all right now and he’d say “yes, thanks for asking, man,” and they’d start talking about their hometowns and their old high schools and Keith would socialize like his parents wanted.

He went to grab a basket, but Hunk made a panicked yelp.

“Don’t leave!” Hunk begged, grasping the open air in front of Keith’s shoulder with the hand not holding the phone. “Pidge and I are wondering if you’d like to come over to our apartment.”

Keith was first surprised that he’d been invited to somebody’s—two somebodies—home, then he was surprised that Hunk and Pidge had their own apartment.

“It’s okay if you don’t,” Hunk said quickly, like he was afraid of coming off too strong.

“Thanks, but…I think I’m going to continue roaming Altea,” Keith said. “I’m getting a feel of the area.”

A curtain of disappointment fell over Hunk’s eyes. “That’s cool. Call or text me if you still want to hang. Pidge and I are spending the rest of today in Altea. We might grab dinner with the rest of the gang—squad—team to celebrate the end of summer. Do you think you’d be interested?”

Keith didn’t think he’d be comfortable dining with a group of strangers, more so with Lance’s smug face among them.

Hunk’s long-term bond to Lance was bewildering.

Keith couldn’t get it into his head that their friendship survived high school and summer; he had lost his friends the day of graduation. After the caps went flying, the senior party had rushed into bathrooms and classrooms to prepare for the all-night campus party.

Keith’s friends had split into their main groups, celebrating their last hours as high schoolers only with those they would miss. Keith had been a drifter in high school, a leech that stuck to the one person in each group he could stand. His friends had never met each other.

“Keith?” Hunk said. “You all right?”

“Sorry, I was going over my schedule. I don’t think I’ll be free—sorry. I have to get settled and…call my parents about mail forwarding and stuff.”

“Egh.” Hunk shivered. He told Pidge he’d be back in about an hour, then hung up and dropped his phone in his pocket. “It’s so much easier when you rent an apartment. Or, in my case, room with a buddy whose parents own a huge complex.”

Their conversation was losing speed, and Keith didn’t think Hunk wanted to stay in place for much longer. Keith didn’t want to milk the conversation into a dry husk. He thanked Hunk for the invitation and said he’d send something in GroupMe tonight, then left Safeway to stroll around the square.

He counted the people he passed with LU clothing on his fingers, toes, and then continued in his head. He’d worn a generic outfit today, thinking anything with the obnoxious LU logo would come off as boastful to the locals.

The adults and elders who smiled at him seemed to know he was a student, and he wondered if it was because he was young and wore his newness on his sleeve, or if it was because he was Korean and the Asian population in Altea was miniscule.

Hunk seemed to fit in; he had attracted the friendly attention of locals and made them smile. Keith couldn’t do that. He had no humor to share, and it was tiring to pretend to be someone he wasn’t. Hunk was genuine, but Keith wouldn’t be shocked if his friendliness was a perfected act.

He stopped counting students. He no longer wanted to be here.

Downtown Altea shouldn’t be so busy on a Sunday night. He could walk there instead. He headed for his car, which was parked on the opposite side of the square.

He was halfway down the walkway that split the square in half when his phone rang. He couldn’t make out the ID; the sun was glaring off his off his phone. It was probably his mother or father.

“Hello?” he said.

“What do you mean you can’t have dinner with us?” Lance said. His ability to irritate the shit out of Keith was powerful—even though a phone. “We’re a team now. Team bonding is a requirement.”

“I can’t make it,” Keith snarled. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“What the hell do you have to do? Vegetate in your room?”

Keith hung up. He wasn’t dealing with that today. He’d had enough Lance exposure for the week.

His phone rang again. He muted the ringer.

When he parked in Mane’s lot and checked his phone, he had collected five phone calls and six texts from Lance.

**Lance: RUDE MUCH?? I AM CLUB COFOUNDER YOU WILL RESPECT ME**

**YOUR EMO ASS IS EATING DINNER WITH THE TEAM**

**I WILL DRAG YOU**

**LITERALLY. NOT A JOKE**

**ACTUALLY ITS BOTH. I WILL LITERALLY DRAG YOU TO DINNER. THEN I WILL VERBALLY DRAG YOU**

**DONT UNDERESTIMATE ME**

#

“What the hell?” Keith said when he entered his hall and saw Lance sitting next to his dorm.

“You’re not escaping, mullet head,” he shouted, jumping to his feet. He wobbled and reached for the wall, knees buckling like he’d been sitting cross-legged long enough for his legs to fall asleep.

Keith turned back into the stairway and took the stairs two at a time. He’d get back in his car and drive off-campus, in any direction, to anywhere Lance couldn’t follow him.

He pushed open the west wing door just as Lance shrieked “No you don—” and tumbled in a blur of arms and legs out of the stairwell. He sprawled on his front, face turned away from Keith.

“Um,” Keith said and looked around for support. Nobody else was around.

Lance didn’t move. He looked unharmed, as far as Keith could tell from the dark arms and legs sticking out from the t-shirt and shorts. His head wasn’t bleeding—or was any injury too far for Keith to spot?

Keith cautiously walked over. Nobody else was in the hall, and Keith wished someone would show up to take control of what could grow into a dire situation. The guy wasn’t dead, Keith was sure—Keith thought he was sure. This wasn’t the time for something like that to happen. The mood wasn’t right.

“Lance,” Keith said, standing next to the body—the alive and visibly breathing body. “Are you okay?”

Lance’s lifeless hand shot out and seized Keith’s ankle. Startled, Keith swore and yanked his foot away—but Lance kept his shoe and fluidly rolled to his feet.

“Ta-dah!” Lance held the shoe to his chest. “Can’t escape now.”

Keith could _not_ believe this guy.

“What the hell is your problem?” Keith said, reaching for the shoe.

Lance shielded it behind his back. “What’s yours?”

“A deranged idiot is holding my shoe hostage.”

“I’ll release it if you come to dinner.”

Keith reached around Lance, but was sidestepped. They circled each other slowly. Lance’s posture was relaxed, but also alert, responsive to every movement Keith made.

Lance’s piercing eyes and cocky smile were unnerving and made Keith want to do one of two things: retreat into his room and throw away the shoe he wore, or tackle Lance and wrestle the captured shoe into his possession.

“Why are you so against joining us?” Lance said.

“It’s dinner, not a club meeting.”

“Everyone’s coming but you.”

“I’m not going,” Keith said.

Lance stepped out of the circle when his back was to the long end of the hall. His smile melted into a neutral line.

“Okay,” Lance said.

“What?” Keith murmured as he watched Lance leave with his shoe.

Lance went past the seminar rooms, kitchen, restrooms, dangling Keith’s shoe by its laces at his side. He didn’t look back, but Keith knew he was well aware of his audience.

And then Lance was going up the west wing stairs and Keith was left alone.

The central doors opened and a trio of deep-voiced guys swaggered in, their sneakers squeaking on the linoleum as they went to the stairwell behind Keith.

“Nice hair,” one of the guys said. “Uh, and nice shoe?”

They shared a laugh that Keith didn’t join.

He went to his room, every uneven step making him angrier. In front of his door stood his other shoe. His anger vanished in a second, replaced by an emotion he didn’t recognize. It felt like a toxic concoction of fury and mischief and…stupidity.

Keith felt like retaliating.

He opened GroupMe as he walked to his dorm.

**_Can I still attend dinner? My schedule opened._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the comments and kudos! i read all comments and i mentally hug all kudo-ers (not a word, probably haha).


	3. sparring stance

Keith pulled into the crowded parking lot of the restaurant Lance had chosen without anyone’s input. Everyone had been onboard, responding positively to his not-suggestion in the GroupMe chat.

“Really?” Keith said when he found a parking spot between a sky-blue BMW coupe and a newly purchased Tesla.

He quickly strode into the restaurant, feeling eyes on him from the windows. The lobby was long with a plush bench lining the wall. People were bunched together, most belonging to young, white families. Some stared at him in the dim lighting.

Stepping into the hallway that led to the restrooms, he opened the chat and announced his arrival.

**Shiro: It’s great to have you here! Take the left hall until you reach the restrooms. Our table is to the left.**

He went quickly, avoiding looking into the dining rooms he passed; he knew people were watching him.

The restrooms were down a small hall to the right. To the left was a small dining room with a few two-seater tables along the walls, and a long rectangular table in the middle.

Hunk and two guys were seated around the far end of the long table. Hunk and the younger-looking one of the trio were deep in conversation, Hunk using wild gestures to explain something that had the other guy sporting a horrified and amused expression. The young one was white, tiny—didn’t look college aged, and had huge glasses that must’ve been more hindering than helpful.

Seated at the end of the table and facing Keith was a young Japanese man. This must’ve been Shiro. Shiro meant ‘white’ in Japanese, and it matched the shock of white hair protruding from his forehead.

“Excuse me,” a waitress sang as she squeezed past Keith; he was standing in the middle of the archway.

Shiro noticed him and waved.

“You must be Keith,” Shiro said as Keith took the chair next to Hunk.

They shook hands over the table.

“Shiro?” Keith said.

“How’d you know?” Shiro’s voice reverberated through Keith’s bones.

“Because you’re Japanese and Shiro’s a Japanese name,” the young-faced one said. “I’m Pidge. I could’ve been Coran, but that’s an old man’s name. Doesn’t fit.”

“Don’t let him hear that,” Hunk warned with a laugh.

“It’s true,” Pidge said, sticking his small hand out to Keith. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Pidge’s and Hunk’s phones buzzed. They pulled them out of their pockets simultaneously while Shiro heaved a heavy sigh. Shiro smiled at Keith as though to apologize.

“Allura sent a Waze notification,” Pidge said. “She and Coran will be here in thirty. Dojang business held them back.”

Shiro was watching Keith, and though his dark eyes were kind and inviting, Keith didn’t want to be seen. He sat back, putting Hunk’s large body between them.

“Has anyone caved in and downloaded that _Pokémon_ game?” Pidge said, still on his phone.

“Nah, I’m stronger than that,” Hunk said smugly.

“Can we agree to be a Pokémon-free club?” Shiro said, looking between the two of them.

“Not if he’s downloaded it,” Pidge said, lifting a finger off his phone to point at Keith.

“I haven’t,” Keith said.

He’d only heard about the game from the local news. He had yet to come across any players, but every time he saw someone walking with their attention riveted on their screen, he assumed they were playing.

“Please don’t. Ever,” Pidge said. “It’s a trap. Once you start, there’s no going back.”

Hunk and Pidge engaged in more conversation, jumping from _Pokémon_ to the latest addition to the _Final Fantasy_ series. Shiro listened closely, chuckling when appropriate. He didn’t talk the whole time, but Keith could tell he wasn’t the third wheel. It was a social skill of its own, being a natural part of a conversation without saying a word.

Pidge looked at his phone after a particularly long buzz. “My dad’s calling. Be back.”

Pidge was short—shorter than the kids of the family who walked by him in the hall. He looked like a kid himself, in his baggy shirt and jeans.

“Keith,” Shiro said.

“Yeah?” Keith leaned over the table to fully see him.

“What brings you to Leon University?”

The scholarship. The pride on his parents’ faces when he agreed to follow their footsteps. The semi-closeness to home.

“It’s a nice campus,” Keith said, and it almost sounded like a question. “Very…academic…looking.”

Hunk laughed. “Very white, you mean.”

“Hunk.” Shiro gave him a sharp look.

Keith shifted in his seat and felt the hard case of his phone shift against the underside of his thigh. He pulled it out, knowing that Shiro wouldn’t appreciate it, but his head was starting to buzz and he needed to escape. Get away from the awkwardness of intruding on a group of friends.

The buzzing got worse—traveled down to his stomach. He stood, hands numb around his phone.

“I have to call my parents,” he said, looking at the table.

“Keith?” Hunk reached for his elbow.

He barreled through the archway, slipping his phone into his pocket and turning sharply into the main hall. He almost bumped into Lance.

“Woah, there.” Lance grabbed Keith’s shoulders and dragged him in front. “Where do you think _you’re_ going, Mr. Mullet?”

“Let me go or I’ll punch you in the solar plexus.” Keith’s voice was remarkably steady considering the buzzing in his stomach had powered up into electric storm.

Lance didn’t get the memo, as was expected, and popped his mouth open on a small o. He tightened his hands, sliding up to Keith’s neck and pushing him toward the tiny alcove that housed the restroom doors.

“What would you do now?” Lance lowered his voice to a sensuous purr.

Slam Lance against the men’s restroom door, jamming his spine into door handle.

This was Keith’s opportunity to retaliate. It was an open window. Except….

“I don’t want to make a scene.” Surely there were people already watching.

“Then don’t.”

That crazily intimate whisper was driving Keith’s more violent thoughts up the walls of his mind. There were worse things he could do. Absolutely crazy things that’d keep Lance away from him forever—unless Lance was masochistic, which wouldn’t be surprising. And that itself surprised Keith; he’d been exposed to enough of Lance’s bullshit in two days—not even a full two days—that he was comfortable anticipating more bullshit.

“I see you thinking,” Lance said. “Tic, tic, tic.”

Keith reached over Lance’s arms with his left arm, gripping Lance’s right wrist. He stepped in with his right foot, swinging his right arm over and dislodging Lance’s hold, and chambered for an elbow strike to Lance’s neck.

“Okay guys, let’s break it up.” Hunk waded in and pulled Keith’s elbow away. “People are staring and Shiro is _not_ happy.”

The hallway was in view of most of their dining room. Shiro and Pidge were staring, Shiro disappointed and Pidge mildly impressed. The other customers—there were so many horrified expressions. Keith hadn’t done anything; he’d held his pose, hadn’t inflicted the counter strike.

His mouth dried, his stomach knotted. He turned on his heels and strode down the hall, ignoring Lance’s laugh-laced calls for him to come back.

Keith could pick up dinner at the cafeteria, fill up one a to-go container and take it to his room. He could watch the anime adaptation of the manga he was growing obsessed with and eat whatever international dish the cafeteria was serving.

“Keith, chill out.” Lance’s exasperated voice carried through the restaurant’s doors as Keith banged out.

Keith increased his speed, almost breaking into a light jog.

“Are you leaving?” Lance could have been humored or irritated or both.

If Keith ran the rest of the way, he’d lose their game. He slowed a little, pulling his lanyard from his pocket, then sped up. It was at times like this, when he wanted to make a quick getaway, that he hated his Camry. He had to jab his key into the lock and twist, wasting time.

“What’s up with you?” Lance leaned against Keith’s car, hands in his jeans’ pockets.

Keith took an unnecessary moment to take in Lance’s destroyed jeans that gaped open from his knees to his shins.

“What are you wearing?” Keith said.

“Huh? These boys?” Lance touched his jeans, splaying his hand near his crotch.

Keith opened his door, barely restraining from lunging forward and finishing his elbow strike. He sat inside his car and slammed the door shut. He put the key in the ignition as Lance slid over the hood of the car, jerking the car, and slid to the other side. Lance opened the passenger door—tried to; Keith had only unlocked the driver’s door.

“Aw, come on,” Lance whined, pulling on the handle multiple times. “Do you always run hot and cold?”

Keith considered the ramifications of flooring his car backwards and angling his car to clip Lance with the hood.

Lance scrunched his mouth in a pout that agitated Keith into rolling down the passenger window and chucking the tissue box at his face. The hollow thunk was a lovely representative of what Keith imagined existed in Lance’s head: desolate badlands where disturbing thoughts thrived.

Lance held the box to his chest. His smiling lips twitched. “Ouch,” he said.

Keith started his car and put it in reverse.

“Wait!” Shiro stood behind Keith’s car, hands up.

“Carefully,” Lance said. “He’s pissed. He’ll run you over.”

Keith shoved the gearstick to park, rolled up the window, and killed the engine.

“What now?” Keith shouted.

“Please come out. We’ll talk,” Shiro said.

If Lance was the one behind the car, Keith would’ve jolted his car back and scared him. Lance, who had an empty flower pot for a head, would probably jump onto the trunk and scramble over the car hood in a poor parody of an action movie character.

Keith got out, hanging his gaze low.

“Let’s go back inside.” Shiro touched Keith’s shoulder. Warmth flared through his sleeve.

They walked toward the entrance.

“What about this?” Lance held up the tissue box.

“It’s yours. Don’t ask me,” Keith said.

“Hmmm.” Lance held the box out with one hand, inspecting it from a distance. “I shall name it Bob.”

Keith murmured an insult under his breath and walked to the restaurant. He didn’t think Shiro had heard, but the guy walked next to him with the same sad expression his father had when Keith did something disappointing, like the one time he got a C for a final grade or the one time he dislocated a student’s arm at his dojang.

He thought of apologizing to Shiro, even though Lance had been the target and hadn’t heard it.

“I don’t want to be here,” he said instead.

“Where is here?” Shiro said gently.

Lance popped next to Keith, holding the tissue box securely to his chest. “Leon University, Altea, NorCal, California, America?”

“Anywhere a thousand meters near you,” Keith said.

“That’s pretty specific. Is there a reason you chose that obviously strategic number? Why not a thousand and one?”

Keith about-faced and without a hitch, walked away for the second time.

Lance groaned. “Why do you keep doing this?”

“Ask yourself that,” Keith snapped.

A hand landed on his shoulder. Not Lance’s; it was too large, too gentle, too warm to be his.

“If Lance doesn’t speak to you for the rest of dinner, will you stay?” Shiro said.

An outraged shriek burst from Lance. “What? Shiro? _No._ ”

Keith turned into Shiro’s hold, swapping destinations for the fourth time.

#

“Lance, Pidge, and Hunk were the original team,” Shiro was saying as the team waited for Allura and Coran to arrive. “I met them during Cub Week, when Pidge and Lance ditched their hosts to hang out with Hunk.”

“He was so salty about it,” Lance said, twirling his straw in his glass of water that had three lemon slices floating around; he had stolen two from Pidge and Hunk.

Lance was sitting in Shiro’s former seat to keep a healthy distance from Keith. Now Pidge sat directly in front of Keith.

“Your hosts contacted Public Safety because they couldn’t find you,” Shiro calmly said.

Pidge snickered into his glass.

“Total party poopers,” Lance said. “Nobody sticks with their hosts.”

Lance drummed a beat on the tissue box that sat in front of him. None of the team had questioned him when he dropped it on the table, though Pidge’s eyebrow popped up in curiosity.

 “Because they follow their schedule,” Shiro said.

“Yeah, well, not everyone was back by ten.” Lance spun the box on the table until Shiro reached out and knocked it to the ground.

“You weren’t back until midnight, and that was after Public Safety sent out a campus-wide email asking for your locations.”

Keith would have whistled if he knew how.

“That was insane.” Hunk dragged his hands down his cheeks. “I thought I was going to get written up for kidnapping you. I almost cried.”

“The rules! How could you break the rules?” Pidge gasped and reached the ceiling, his other hand clutching at his chest. “The blasphemy!”

“That was so funny,” Lance said. “We were so into that zombie video game that we didn’t notice our hosts were calling us. Hunk was sweating tears when he saw the e-mail. He couldn’t even talk straight when he told Public Safety we were with him.”

Hunk shook his head into his palms and hid his face. “Please don’t remind me.”

Lance’s eyes flashed. He sat upright from his slouch. “Dude, remember the officers that came? The really buff ones? That shit was crazy. I thought they were going to whip out handcuffs and say your rights.”

Hunk’s muffled voice begged Lance to shut up.

“Do you forget that you were still in _Amnesia_ mode?” Pidge said coyly.

“Nope. Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Lance purposefully looked away. “Any news on Allura and Coran?”

Hunk left his prison of hands and checked his phone. “According to Waze, they’ll pulling up right now. Searching for a parking spot.”

“Good luck. It’s packed out there,” Pidge said.

“If Keith still wants to leave, Allura can take his spot.” Lance looked at Keith for the first time since they returned to the table.

“You’re supposed to ignore me,” Keith said.

Pidge made a choked-off laugh. “That’s how you got him back?”

“It was _his_ idea,” Lance said, indicating Shiro with an outstretched arm.

“Shiro? Really?” Hunk sounded confused.

“Hah!” Pidge applauded. “Congrats. You actually did it.”

Lance crossed his arms, glaring half-meant daggers at Shiro. “I challenge you to a sparring duel.”

“Please say ‘match,’” Pidge said. “Duel is so… _Yu-Gi-Oh!_ ”

Keith wasn’t familiar with this group dynamic, that so resembled a family bond. He’d seen it in action from a distance at his high school, in the few friend groups that housed that warm domestic feel, but never had the opportunity to witness it up close.

Lance’s mouth curled.

“Don’t,” Pidge warned, hands creeping to his ears.

“It’s time to d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-”

Pidge covered his ears and groaned, ducking his head. Shiro closed his eyes and started an on-the-spot meditation session. Hunk smiled apologetically at Keith.

“d-d-d-d-d-duel!” Lance stood and smacked his open hand on the table, rattling the dishes and glasses.

The entire dining room went silent. All eyes snapped to Lance, the only person standing. He had the audacity to fire finger bullets a pretty-faced woman sitting opposite her supposed date.

“Excuse me?” the woman snarled, blonde ringlets bouncing on her shoudlers. “What was that?”

“Feisty kitty,” Lance said, winking as he retook his seat.

“Excuse me?” The woman stood, fists clenched so tight they were red.

“ _Lance_.” Shiro was almost vibrating with disappointment. “Apologize. _Now_.”

“Dad Mode,” Pidge told Keith between two coughs.

Lance held a lazy hand up that unmistakably asked “why?”

Pidge watched Keith’s face while Shiro and Lance started a staring battle, both unyielding, but Lance was unperturbed and Shiro was…in Dad Mode. He certainly seemed fatherly with that uniquely disapproving tint surrounding his pinched expression. And Lance was a child, stubborn and defiant to his father.

“How old is Shiro?” Keith whispered to Hunk, who was casually watching Lance and Shiro as though this happened all the time.

Hunk angled his face toward Keith and said in a murmur, “Twenty, but he’s a sophomore. He took a leap year after high school.”

Shiro looked and didn’t look twenty. His muscular physique and sculpted face were an appealing mix of teen and adult. Keith thought of the beautiful young men and woman who his mother said were at their peak. From then on their attractiveness would decline. She would say the same of Shiro if she saw him—but Keith would disagree.

“I’m sorry,” Lance finally said, not looking away from Shiro.

The woman wasn’t listening. She was leaving. She and her embarrassed date had already paid the bill. They went out, and in came a woman with deep bronze skin and platinum blonde hair pulled into a high bun. The color was whiter as she got closer.

“Yaaaaas queen,” Lance said in a buzzy voice as she approached.

“Hello, team. I hear we have a newcomer.” Her voice was lovely, heavy with a British accent.

She went around the table, her multi-color skirt swimming around her heels, and hugged everyone, lingering her touch on shoulders and arms. Keith worried she’d also hug him; she seemed so open to physical touches.

“Coran will be here soon. He’s using the restroom.” She took the seat next to Pidge and beamed a powerful, genuine smile at Keith. Lance was right about one thing: she was a queen.

“I’m Allura, one of your club’s advisors. You may have already been told that I am a professor of creative writing.”

“I wasn’t.”

“We didn’t tell you that she has a third degree black belt either,” Lance said.

“That isn’t something I like to broadcast,” Allura said, her friendly tone lacking warmth.

“Did you train here?” Keith asked.

“In Altea?” She smiled and nodded. “I’m a native. Born and raised. I’ve also been attending the Black Lion Martial Arts Academy since I was a child. That’s where our club will host its bimonthly meetings.”

“I hate that word,” Pidge angrily declared to the table. “Nobody ever agrees on whether it means twice a month or every other month.”

“I agree!” Hunk punched the air. “Also, does biweekly mean twice a week or once every two weeks?”

“Bi means two,” Lance said, winking at Keith.

“I know that,” Keith said, confused. “Mono means one and tri means three.”

Lance rolled his eyes.

“What means four?” Hunk said.

“Actually,” said Pidge, holding up a finger. “It’s uni, di, and tri. Quadra is four. They’re Latin counting prefixes. Don’t ask why I know them.”

Lance pressed his hands together, as though in prayer, and pointed his fingers at Pidge. “I disagree.”

“Latin is Latin.” Pidge shrugged.

“I still disagree.”

“Then what’s mono?” Hunk said.

“Mono is Greek,” Pidge said.

“So…when do we use each one?”

“Don’t know. Google it.”

“Can we not do this?” Lance said.

“Tonight is about Keith,” Shiro said, putting in his first words of the past handful of minutes.

Keith had almost forgotten they were sitting diagonally from each other.

“No, it’s about the club,” Lance tersely corrected. “We planned this out before we knew Mr. Mullet existed.”

Allura’s bright blue eyes singled out Keith. “Why are you here?”

There were a dozen answers—most of which Keith couldn’t put into words.

Everyone watched him, waiting with expressions that were unique to each individual. Allura’s was the warmest, the most open. Lance’s conveyed pure disinterest.

“I don’t know. I just…” Had nothing else to do. Keith couldn’t say that with Hunk and Shiro smiling so nicely at him.

“Does someone want to check on Coran?” Lance said blandly.

Shiro blinked, but didn’t open his eyes for a few seconds. “Lance, please,” he said.

“All righty.” Lance went into the restroom.

“Is it just me or is Lance twice as Lance-y today?” Hunk said, frowning at the restrooms.

“I was thinking that, too. The moment I arrived I sensed something was off,” Allura said, wrinkling her brow.

“Is he normally not….” Keith paused, erring on the side of caution; he didn’t know how to describe Lance without sounding biased. “What’s he usually like?”

“He normally spreads out his Lance-ness,” Hunk said.

“I don’t....” Keith trailed off, helpless.

Pidge cleared his throat. “What Hunk means is that Lance is normally one Lance per hour. Today he is two Lances per hour. Actually, he’s more one-point-five Lances per hour. There’s just a slight uptick.”

“What?” Keith and Hunk said at the same time.

“He’s just more Lance-y,” Pidge said with finality.

“That’s what I said,” Hunk said.

Keith couldn’t imagine Lance being anything less than an obnoxious, big-mouthed hothead.

“He’d never attack a stranger unless he was in danger,” Hunk said. “Him doing a collar choke on you— _two_ collar chokes—is against our dojang’s student pledge. He’d be suspended if our grandmaster found out.”

“Two collar chokes?” Shiro said, eyes narrowing at Hunk.

“Of course he didn’t tell you,” Pidge said. “He told me, and I told Hunk. According to Lance, Keith attacked him. The reality is that he collar-grabbed Keith without warning, and Keith was forced to defend himself.”

“He was testing Keith,” Hunk further explained.

“I thought he was joking,” Allura said.

Shiro’s silent head shake spoke for itself. The table sat quietly until the waitress came to check on them.

“Not here yet?” the waitress said, irritation creeping into her voice from the skinny pinch of her eyebrows.

Pidge looked down the restroom hallway. “We’re waiting on two.”

“Care to order any appetizers, drinks, meals at this point?”

“Sure,” Shiro said. “I’m so sorry about the wait.”

“No worries.” The waitress opened her notebook with a snap. “What can I get you guys?”

She went around the table to take everyone’s orders. Her cranky demeanor brightened when she got to Allura. A spunky man donning a curled moustache zipped to the seat next to Keith, so fast that nobody could greet him. He opened his menu, looked skyward, pointed at random, and ordered the deep dish cheese ravioli for himself. He randomly selected another dish for Lance. The waitress slapped her notebook shut and left.

“What took you so long?” Pidge said. “And where the heck is Lance?”

“In the restroom,” Coran said.

“He normally doesn’t take that long to—” Hunk traced a toilet bowl in the air with his hands.

“He’s chatting with the other young man inside. Big eyes, small face, kind of like a goldfish.” The man seemed to see Keith for the first time. “Keith, yes? I am Coran, the second advisor to your lovely club, and professor of fictional archaeology. We tear apart fictional worlds in books and film and make educated guesses—hypotheses!—about the history of the work and the creators. Intersectionality is fundamental. The killing of a major character might correlate to the death of creator’s lover.”

Pidge cupped his hands around his mouth. “Boo!”

“Boo-hoo, computer scientist,” Coran said without bite. “Your major is too packed to fit any of my sections.”

“Boo-hoo,” Pidge parroted weakly. “At least it’s fun. Sometimes.”

“You haven’t started yet,” Shiro said, touching Pidge’s shoulder.

“The horror stories,” Pidge said, those two words overflowing with dread.

“You’ll be fine,” Hunk assured. “Give me a bump.”

They fist bumped, splaying open their hands into fireworks as they pulled apart.

#

Lance returned when the meals arrived, summoned by Shiro’s text. He didn’t come from the restrooms; he walked in from the main hallway.

“Where have you been?” Allura said.

“Outside.” Lance unrolled his utensils, letting them clatter onto the table. “Damn, Coran. You got me something pretty.”

“It was random. My finger did the choosing.” Coran kissed his index finger.

The team ate, and Hunk stole food bits from everyone’s plates. Lance swapped half his salmon for half of Pidge’s chicken. Pidge swapped half of his remaining chicken for a quarter of Shiro’s halibut. Everyone but Keith passed their plates around.

Kieth’s extended family did this during large meals. Nobody owned their dish.

After the dishes were cleaned, Lance ordered four desserts for everyone to share, and after that, he asked for a round of toothpicks.

“Who’s paying?” Coran said as he wiggled his toothpick between his front teeth.

“I hate this part,” Pidge told Keith.

Shiro took the bill. “I can do it.”

“No, no.” Allura gestured. “Hand it over.”

“I can pay for my dish,” Hunk said.

“Let’s split,” Lance said.

“I don’t like using cash,” Coran said.

Pidge swiped the bill from Shiro and popped in a credit card and said coyly, “My dad will pay for this.”

Lance gave a standing ovation. “Ladies and gents, this is what it means to take one for the team. Clap it out.”

Lance was the only one clapping. Once again, he was the unwelcome center of the dining room’s attention.

“No? Nobody else?” Lance sat down. “Thanks, Pidge.”

“Pidge—” Shiro started.

Pidge handed off the bill to the waitress.

“He’s rich. Let him do what he wants,” Lance said. “Free country.”

“Don’t,” Pidge groaned.

The waitress returned quickly and subtly hinted that they _weren’t_ free to take their time. The team filed down the main hall, Keith getting stuck in the back with Lance, who held the tissue box against his stomach and tapped a slow beat.

“Glad you stuck around?” Lance said.

Keith threaded through the team until he got to Pidge at the front.

“Stop running,” Lance shouted from the back, undoubtedly disturbing all corners of the restaurant.

“Lance,” Shiro and Allura scolded as one.

Outside, everyone pooled into a group and said their goodbyes. There was a lot of hugging and firework fist bumps. Keith knocked fists with everyone but Lance, who he openly ignored.

“Saving a hug for me?” Lance quipped.

“A punch is more like it,” Keith said, peeling away from the team.

A chorus of goodbyes followed him. He turned the corner to his car, checking back once to make sure Lance wasn’t sneaking on him for a surprise attack, aka another testing.

Keith pulled out of the lot without incident. The first streetlight on the way to campus was a red light, and he was the first one in the lane. The light stayed red to allow a couple across the street. Their arms loosely swung between them as they talked with smiling faces.

Keith had never experienced something like that. He was a stranger to flirting, dating, holding hands, kissing—everything related to romance and sex was alien territory, self-pleasure not included.

He became aware of someone shouting at his window. To his left was a blue Honda sedan, and Lance was sitting in the driver’s seat, blasting finger guns at him. He lifted the tissue box from the passenger seat and waved it in the air.

The light turned green. Lance blasted his horn and took off. Keith returned the motion, keeping up with Lance ten miles above the speed limit, until they reached the next yellow light. Keith slowed down and Lance sped, making it across just as the light flashed red.

“Idiot,” Keith said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1st serious inquiry: what pace do y'all consider to be slow burn?
> 
> 2nd serious inquiry: how do y'all feel about a little sheith mixed with the klance? (not strong enough to be a love triangle, but prominent enough to stir drama)


	4. horse stance

Keith’s fall-semester schedule had been created by a random professor at the end of his orientation, back in late June. Luckily, Keith’s classes were evenly spread throughout the week; he had two back-to-back classes each weekday in the late morning. No 8 a.m. classes for him. Other students weren’t as lucky and had hours between their 8 a.m and evening classes.

His College Writings professor didn’t assign seats—thank goodness—so he arrived early and took his place on the outside of the center row. Not too close or too far from the front of the room, and in the perfect spot to blend in with the rest of the students.

Most his classmates were white, and their presence frosted his insides as he watched the seats fill with blondes and brunettes and blue eyes and green eyes. He was the only Asian kid, the other four non-white students being black. His high school had been seventy percent Asian, and several of his classes had completely lacked white faces. This—this was a situation he had never experienced.

His professor, a laidback woman with black ringlets that bounced to her lower waist, was a student favorite. She hugged the younger sister of a former student who was currently in the MBA program at Stanford, and then handed out the syllabi. She had each student stand and share an interesting tidbit with the class, a small comfort that brought Keith back to high school.

When it was Keith’s turn, a murmur about his mullet flowed through the class, penetrating any semblance of familiarity; Keith’s high school had been full with crazier hair than his. A mullet wasn’t even crazy. It was just a choppy haircut.

Brenner’s encouraging smile kept Keith’s thoughts from spiraling out of his grasp.

“My name is Keith and I train in tae kwon do.” He sat to a round of “oohs” and ignored the whispered questions of his belt level.

The introductions went on, Professor Brenner pointed out key parts of the syllabus, and they were assigned their first essays: a 1-3 page personal essay that doubled as a diagnostic.

Keith’s next class, Great Works I, was on the second floor of the same academic building. It was taught by Professor Livingston, a red-faced stocky man who intimidated the entire class, including the giant basketball players in the backrow. They were slouched before the professor arrived, and hunched afterward.

Somewhere in the middle of Livingston’s opening lecture about the golden history of the college’s Great Works program, Keith unconsciously started combing fingers through the hair hanging over his shoulder. He had been meaning to get a trim since graduation, but the feel of hair on his shoulders was surprisingly comforting.

“You, with the mullet, what’s your name?” Livingston barked.

Keith jolted under the sudden heat of Livingston’s glare. “Keith.”

“What do the Great Works mean to you?”

Painful silence descended on the room as Keith struggled to find an answer. Livingston was testing him, just as Lance had.

Livingston leaned against the whiteboard, a bushy eyebrow slowly raising. He didn’t think Keith could provide a suitable answer, and he was right. The only thing Keith knew about the Great Works class series was that it covered works from people such as Homer, Plato, and Herodotus. All dead white people, Keith assumed.

Livingston tapped his foot. “Keith?”

This man was intolerable.

“Reading into the past,” Keith said, quoting one of the smarty pants from junior year English.

“Into the past? Or the future?” Livingston stepped forward, bushy eyes descending into a pinch.

“Great Works are timeless. Past, present, and future.”

“Interesting.” Livingston leisurely paced in front of the class. “Keith may not have been paying attention to my introduction, but he understands why he is here. Why you all are here.”

Livingstone lectured for half an hour and stopped only because class was ending in fifteen minutes and he still needed to go over the syllabus.

Keith loved the tentative schedules on the backs of both his syllabi. His homework was mostly reading and studying, and his projects were a handful of short essays. He hated writing, but he had no issue with choking out a three-page essay every few weeks. Brenner was an easy grader, had to be because everyone loved her, and Livingston removed a student’s lowest essay score when calculating the final grade. High school hadn’t been so forgiving.

His personal essay and first Great Works reading were his only assignments, so after picking up lunch in the kitchen, he shut himself in his dorm and worked until the dining hour. Then he traveled to the kitchen, packed another meal to go, and returned to his dorm to proofread his essay.

Eyes burning from computer strain, he went to bed early. His first day had been smooth. No Lance, few embarrassments, and a light workload—so far.

As he lay in bed in the early minutes of ten p.m., the prickle of finality, of doom, of college being nothing more than work and sleep, crawled over him.

#

Tuesday was similar to Monday.

Mostly white classes (Intro to Bible Study and Astronomy 101) with Keith being the only Asian; preppy classmates who were intrigued by Keith’s hair (someone asked if he had a stylist because his mullet was “totally on point”); manageable course loads; one approachable professor who the class automatically loved, one cranky professor who put Keith in the spotlight, this time by asking “what sort of Asian” he was; breakfast in the cafeteria, lunch and dinner in his dorm; no Lance.

Wednesday passed, a mixture of good and evil: lectures and discussions. Livingston had developed an affinity for Keith’s hair and spent the first minutes of class talking about his obsession with mullets in his teen years. He would have worn one if he had the proper hair type and face, he claimed, pointing at Keith. It was a slightly passive-aggressive way to compliment Keith, and weirdly, Keith felt more connected to his classmates as they traded “what the ever loving hell is going on?” looks with each other.

Thursday dragged by, then Friday. Local students were packing up for their weekend visits, non-locals were planning weekend trips to the city, and Keith was stuck in the middle. He had nowhere to go, no one to travel with.

He walked around campus, clearing the dust accumulating in his head from the hours he spent cooped in his room. He was drawn to the sidewalks tracing the half-full commuter lots. He sat under the awning of a neighboring academic building and watched the evening class students cross the campus’s main road to the parking lot.

The trickle of cars leaving thinned to a drip. An orange Jeep with giant wheels rolled down the road that led to the upperclassman housing. The girls inside sang along to the pop music blasting from the speakers.

Keith’s mother had experienced that the first week of college. She’d gathered a group of girls she met in her classes and taken them downtown for a Girls’ Night Out at a local nightclub that hosted monthly teen-friendly sessions. No alcoholic drinks, plenty of security, and a DJ who only had tame music to play. The club had changed over the decades, turning Teen Night into College Night. Anyone from eighteen to twenty-two could attend, but no alcohol was served.

“Hey, Keith. Didn’t think I’d see you here.”

Keith refused to look at Lance as he sat next to Keith.

“Can you leave?” Keith said.

“Ouch.” Lance grunted. “Hurts almost as much as isolation does.”

Keith said nothing. People like Lance fed on attention. Remove it and they starved into husks of desperation.

Last year, one of the rudest boys in Keith’s grade had an anxiety attack when everyone spontaneously ignored him. It was as though a certain dark energy had fallen on everyone in the last weeks of school, and they weren’t going to take the boy’s attitude any longer. Nobody stayed in his presence any longer than was required for group projects, and Keith knew from experience that it was easier to feel ignored in the presence of others, than in solitude.

Ignoring someone was a deliberate act; it took energy to withhold energy from someone.

But Lance didn’t seem affected by Keith’s stony silence. He whistled comfortably, drawing his legs onto the bench to sit cross-legged and bumped his knee against Keith’s thigh.

He wasn’t leaving. He’d stay until Keith left. Leaving meant losing their standoff, and Keith wasn’t up for another loss.

Lance stopped whistling. All Keith heard of his presence were soft breaths. He looked at Lance’s face, breaking a “no eye contact” rule he’d made mere moments ago.

Lance’s eyes were closed, his head and back straight as though tied to a rigid stick, but he didn’t look uncomfortable.

“Care to join me, young cricket?” Lance said without disturbing his perfect posture.

Keith was ready to stand and leave, but he had nowhere to go except for his dorm, and he wasn’t in the mood to drive in search of a hiding place. And Lance would follow him, except…Keith wasn’t sure about that at the moment; Lance was so still he looked rooted to the bench. He was a breathing extension of the bench, and Keith didn’t feel awkward watching.

Meditation at Keith’s dojang was brief and only meant to calm the boy before and after training. Getting deep, as Lance had done fairly quickly, took too much time to fit into the school’s one hour classes. Lance could have been faking, but the calmness he projected was too strong to doubt. It was contagious, and Keith felt relaxed, though he hadn’t realized he was tensed.

Lance had excellent hold of his body. Keith speculated that such control translated to tae kwon do; his techniques must’ve been sharp.

“Can I say something?” Lance said. “I’ve seen you walk in and out of Mane Hall a bunch of times this week. My room’s right under yours and my desk is against the window, so it’s hard to ignore you and your mullet.” He paused, and though he held his body steady in mediation, caution eased into his presence.

“And?” Keith said, disturbed that he’d been watched without his knowing.

“This is going to sound really stupid and you might want to punch me afterward but I totally understand if you do.” Lance almost slurred in his quick speech, and it reflected in the breaking down of his posture.

Keith waited for the kicker. Anxiety wormed into his stomach.

“You’re always by yourself,” Lance said.

Oh. That wasn’t too bad.

“I’m an introvert,” Keith said. “I enjoy solitude.”

“But not always.”

“Most of the time.”

“What about the times you don’t like solitude? Don’t you have people over?” Lance’s voice was dripping with an emotion Keith could only label as negative. “You don’t even eat out. You bring your food back to your dorm. Don’t you have someone to eat with? Have you even eaten in the Den?”

The Den was the college’s tacky name for the cafeteria. Keith hadn’t hated it until now. He’d never call it anything but the cafeteria for the rest of his four years—if he stayed that long. He decided in the aftermath of Lance’s ridiculously self-righteous spiel.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Keith said drily, refusing to meet Lance’s wide eyes.

“Then what’s with that face you make? I can’t tell if you naturally look depressed, but that’s how you look to me. Depressed.”

Keith curtly stood, startling Lance out of his meditative pose.

“I’m not depressed,” Keith snapped.

“I’m checking, that’s all. Being a good friend.”

Keith didn’t grace Lance with as much as a middle finger. He stormed toward his dorm, fire pooling into his fingers, urging them to curl into fists so he could turn and ram a double punch combo into Lance, who followed at a short distance—though no distance was long enough for Keith.

Lance didn’t make it into Keith’s room. He tried ducking under Keith’s arm as he opened the door, but Keith seized his hair and yanked him back.

“Oi,” Lance grunted, then clawed the inside of Keith’s thigh, close to his groin.

Keith pulled Lance into a side headlock and dragged him into the dorm. The door slammed behind them. Keith took it as a que to flex his arms and apply the choke.

“What do you do?” Keith growled, turning in a circle to knock Lance off balance.

“Don’t wanna hurt you,” Lance coughed out.

“Then don’t.” It was a delight to spit Lance’s words back at him.

Lance reached over Keith’s shoulder and palmed his face.

“Claw.” He aligned the fingertips of his other hand into a spear and held it up. “Eye gouge.” He made a fist with his other hand. “Groin strike.” Every choked word was a struggle to hear.

Keith released the hold, dropping Lance to his knees. “I learned different.”

“No fucking duh,” Lance rasped, rubbing his neck and staggering to his feet. “I never actually choked you. You didn’t have to go all—” He broke off into a worryingly harsh cough.

“Did I...hurt you?” Keith said, each word souring as it left his mouth.

Lance flipped him off, his other hand cupping his neck. His expression was strange—alien and _not right_.

“I’m sorry,” Keith said, but Lance was already out the door.

Keith pulled out his desk chair and sank onto it. He’d been in the moment, had let his anger steer him into breaking his dojang’s student code: never to attack, always to defend.

He’d never used his techniques on someone outside of training. Nobody had ever attacked him, or gone through the motions of attack to trigger his anger as Lance had during WoW. Many times, he had wondered if he could defend himself in a real life situation, and though Lance hadn’t actually choked him, hadn’t ever physically hurt him, Keith had itched to give it his all. He’d wanted to snap Lance’s wrist, elbow smash Lance’s face, choke Lance into unconsciousness—hurt him.

It wasn’t that he wanted to hurt. Lance was…there. He was there and easy to strike.

His grandmaster would have smacked him in the face with a foam sword if he learned about the headlock. No, he’d do far worse. He’d suspend Keith for weeks, ban him from using any of the floors.

The only positive product of Keith’s temper was Lance’s absence.

Keith surveyed his empty room. His silent room.

Laughter bubbled through the crack of his door as someone walked down the hall.

He hadn’t laughed in a while. He needed something funny. Something comedic and the opposite of the horror manga series he’d been binging in his free time. Maybe the angst and gore had shaken something loose in his head. Now he was impersonating the characters’ battle-worn faces. That’s what Lance mistook for—for—

Keith palmed his forehead. The beginnings of a headache were wrinkling his concentration.

Lance was screwing up his life.

#

Keith woke on Saturday morning to his phone ringing. His body said it wasn’t late morning yet. The dim sunlight filtering around the blinds confirmed that it was either overcast or really early in the morning.

He expected Lance to be the one ringing him up, but it was an unknown number. Probably spam. The only people who called him were his parents, his grandmaster, and spammers. He turned off the ringer and let the caller go to voicemail hell.

He placed it on his desk and took the first steps on his bunk ladder, then noticed his phone was still lit. Someone had sent a text. Not Lance. It was from an unknown number asking if he was free to talk.

**(xxx) xxx-xxxx: This is Shiro, by the way.**

It was already ten in the morning. Keith had been asleep for eleven hours. No wonder he was sluggish.

He drew open the blinds, letting in the sunlight. It wasn’t overcast; the sky was dotted with clouds. His blinds had just done a spectacular job of keeping his room dark, making it easier for him to sleep longer.

He texted Shiro, **_Yeah. Why?_** Then he added Shiro to his contacts, his first official number of the year. It had only taken one week to make his progress. His parents would be proud.

**Shiro: It’s about Lance.**

“Of course it’s about fucking Lance,” Keith said.

**Shiro: Can you meet me at the east door of W Holt? Text me when you get here so I can let you in.**

That was one of the sophomore residences on the west side of campus. Keith hadn’t stepped into any residency aside from Mane. He could imagine Lance running through every dorm hall to earn the self-imposed title of Achieved Campus Explorer.

**_On my way._ **

Keith took empty halls to W Holt. The campus was dead. It would be like this for the rest of the year. The campus was most alive during weekday mornings, when students bustled to class with coffees and late breakfast in their hands. Some of Keith’s classmates ate in class, and his professors didn’t mind so long as the chewing was quiet and the crumbs were swept into the trash.

It was the opposite of high school: no food, only water.

High school also didn’t have as many stairs as college. Shiro lived on the first floor, but Keith had to climb a flight of stairs to reach the parking lot, and then another couple of steps to the east entrance.

He texted his arrival, and Shiro popped the door open. Shiro’s room was a few doors down.

“That’s cool,” Keith said, gesturing to the message-board vinyl sticker spanning the length of Shiro’s door.

Friendly messages were scattered across, ranging from “hello!” to “nice hair!” to—

“Daddy Shiro spanked me?” Keith read out, then warmed from his face to his neck when Shiro chuckled.

“I did not notice that.” Shiro unclipped the skinny eraser-tipped Expo marker from its place holder and rubbed out the message.

“This seems like something Lance did,” Keith said.

Shiro laughed, and it roused deep, liquid warmth in Keith.

“He’s written worse.” Shiro put the marker on the board and unlocked his door. “Come in.”

This single was twice as large as Keith’s. The sink was set in a counter in front of a shiny mirror that looked recently installed. Next to that was a two-door refrigerator with magnets lined in rows and columns along its top: a yearly calendar, an undergraduate calendar, inspirational quotes about life and hardships, and several cartoony characters that Keith figured came from artsy websites.

Shiro had also taken advantage of the room provided by a high-setting bunk, putting his work area and a metal filing cabinet below. A mini-calendar hung on a bunk rung, displaying the current month’s image of a long-haired Yorkie.

“Not a cat person?” Keith said, tapping the Yorkie’s giant pink bow.

“I’m allergic.”

Shiro was leaning against the door like he’d been there for a while, and Keith guessed he’d been standing there for a while, watching Keith scope out his room.

“Me too,” Keith said. “I have two Yorkies, actually. Pado and Danbee. They recently turned two.”

“I had a shiba several years ago. His name was Hachiko.” Shiro nodded at Keith’s widened eyes.

Keith’s throat closed at the thought of losing his dogs. They’d die, as all living things do, and he hated thinking about the inevitable goodbye. When he took his dogs to their annual check-up a few months ago, an elderly couple had brought in their limping dog. He had been paying for the appointment when the couple left, tears etched into their weathered cheeks. One of the vets had followed them out and given hugs, and Keith had cried without knowing until the receptionist handed him a box of tissues.

“Keith, how are you doing?” Shiro said, his delicate voice soothing the burn of tears in Keith’s throat.

Every year mattered to a dog. They lived such short lives, and here Keith was spending most of his year away from his.

He was still touching the calendar, his fingers on the Yorkie’s fuzzy face.

“I’m sorry,” Keith said, the words catching on the ragged inside of his throat. “I’m not feeling well.”

Shiro guided Keith to the desk chair.

“Can I get you something to drink? Tea or coffee? Water?” Shiro opened the bottom door of the fridge and showed the neatly packed interior that held mostly fruit and chilled drinks.

“Water’s good.”

Shiro cracked a bottle open for Keith. “Do you want a plastic bag?”

“Huh?”

Shiro slid open a desk drawer and pulled out a thick roll of plastic. He held it up, the loose end flapping open and showing the bottom hem of a small waste-can liner.

“Barf bag?” Shiro said.

“Oh, uh, no thanks. I’m not nauseated.”

Keith sipped his water and savored the chill rushing down his throat to his stomach. Shiro wasn’t watching him, but he felt observed nonetheless.

Some people had that all-seeing-eye that allowed them to absorb their surroundings like a sponge. His parents had taught him about these empaths, these Friends of All (Good) People—“Good” because they would never align themselves with awful people. His mother believed they made the best friends; his father believed they made the most dangerous friends.

 _Now_ Shiro was watching him. Keith directed his attention to the blank wall in front of him and envied how it came off as an attempt to make the room seem larger, while the walls in his own room were a product of his colorless personal life.

“You wanted to talk about Lance,” Keith said.

“Yesterday’s episode.”

The incident flashed through Keith’s mind. It was worse the second time he thought about it. The loss of control, the explosion racing down his arms as he squeezed tighter, and worst of all, the dissatisfaction of Lance giving in and making that horrid expression of hurt and fear and disgust—as though Keith had disappointed him for the final time, and he had no more patience to spend on whatever hope he’d pinned to Keith.

Shiro leaned against a bunk support beam. He smelled faintly of the ocean—watermelon overlying the notes of lavender and cedar wood.

“I’m sorry,” Keith said.

“What triggered you?”

The word burned into Keith’s head. _Triggered_. Like a machine that reacted without his input. A part of him that wasn’t him.

“Take off your shoes and socks,” Shiro said as he opened his closet.

His clothes hung in categories: shirts, sweaters, shorts, pants, and were those business suits? Keith couldn’t tell because Shiro’s broad frame was in the way as he tugged down a stack of pads from the shelf installed on top of the rack.

Shiro gauged the pile, tapping a finger to his chin, then nudged a curved kick shield out with his shoe. He picked it up and slotted his arms through the strap holds.

Keith’s shoes and socks went flying to the side. He jumped to his feet, practically shoving the chair behind him, and quickly stretched his hamstrings and quads.

Shiro settled into a deep horse stance and braced the shield against his side.

“What kick?” Keith said, stepping into a sparring stance in front of Shiro.

“Whatever you like. I can turn for roundhouses.”

“I’ll go with push kick.”

Keith bounced on his toes, fists protecting his face. He shuffle-stepped forward, chambered his knee to his chest, and with a scream slammed his foot into the curved center of the pad.

He recoiled and slid back into his sparring stance.

Shiro nodded.

Keith slid into a side kick, sticking the impact with a screamed kiyap. He followed with another push kick, a heel kick, a back kick—and it wasn’t fast enough.

He went around Shiro and grabbed two kick paddles. Shiro dropped the kick shield and held up the paddles parallel to each other.

Keith looked over his shoulder and in a fluid motion whipped his rear leg around, smacking the underside of his foot through the paddles. He went through three successive wheel kicks, spinning so fast the only thing he saw clearly was his target path. Then he went through three reverse wheel kicks, striking with the top of his foot.

Each time he made impact he kiyaped, channeling his energy in short shouts that powered his kicks.

He blasted through the paddles several more times, and then he pointed at the punch gloves in front of the still-open closet.

Shiro threw the paddles aside and slipped on the gloves, which were attached to circular pads. He kicked a pair of half-mitt sparring gloves to Keith.

Keith strapped them on and pounded into the pads, starting slow and working toward speed and power. He twisted his fist into the pad as he made impact, driving the power into Shiro’s palms, who pushed into the punches to keep his pads in place.

“You have incredible strength,” Shiro said when Keith stepped back, panting and sweaty.

“I need more,” Keith said, stripping off his gloves. “I need kicking bags, free sparring, board breaking, creative poomsae—everything with freedom. I want to go crazy.”

Shiro unstrapped Keith’s gloves and tossed them on top of the pads on the ground. “Our first meet is Wednesday evening. Seven to nine at Black Lion Academy. I’ll send a notification on GroupMe. You’ll find the training bags more suitable than Lance.”

“He still owes me a sparring match.” Keith slipped on his socks and shoes.

“Lance keeps everyone on their toes,” Shiro said. “Don’t go easy on him. He won’t go easy on you.”

Keith didn’t doubt that one bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, so.... i'm feeling the need for unrequited sheith so lance can get madder and angstier.
> 
> i haven't written martial arts scenes in like three years so pls let me live. i'm working my way toward grappling. (heheh)
> 
> thanks for the comments and kudos. let me know what you think. (Y)


	5. triple punch

Keith’s hair was thick and long enough to pull into a choppy ponytail. He toyed with it in front of the mirror, trying different angles and different knots with the hair ties he had purchased at the college shop—two times around was too lose, three was painful if the knot tugged on the wrong strands, and four was often too tight on his scalp.

He went with three knots at the back of his head, as he did at his dojang. He missed his grandmaster and the foam sword that was relegated to smacking students when they weren’t obeying. The first time he’d been corrected was during his first lesson, when he was struck in the back for yawning during the early mediation. Keith apologized, and then had said, “How would I defend against that, sir?” His grandmaster had cackled and said Keith would go places.

Keith hadn’t gone anywhere but local tournaments, but if his trip to the Black Lion Academy tonight counted, then Altea was the farthest he’d traveled.

He followed the GPS on his phone to the Academy, a ten-minute drive from campus to the outskirt of downtown Altea. The Academy was built on a small strip of shops that had a tiny parking lot and an equally tiny employee back lot. Allura had posted on GroupMe that the grandmaster was allowing them assess to the Academy’s five dedicated employee spots.

He parked next to a silver Jeep Cherokee that was in one of the Academy spots. Next to that was Lance’s Honda.

The Academy’s back door was propped open by a vinyl-coated kettlebell. Keith lined his toes along the doorframe and bowed, then stepped in and was greeted by the homey smell of the interlocking foam tiles that stretched across the building, stopping at the hard floors that ran along the walls.

To Keith’s right was a narrow hallway that led to the restrooms, a break room, and an unmarked door that probably was a supply closet. In the front of the building was a receptionist desk and a few chairs for spectators.

“My throat still hurts,” Lance said. He was sitting in the splits at the center of the mats, wearing white uniform pants and a tucked-in shirt that proclaimed in huge font, “UP.”

“You asked for it,” Keith said, then sucked in his breath, wishing he could suck his words back in, as a woman wearing a 3rd degree black belt walked out of the front office.

“Is Lance bothering you?” she said.

She bowed onto the mats, her long ponytail falling over her shoulder. She went to the stack of kicking shields leaning against the mirror and shifted them to the back-wall shelf.

“He attacked me last weekend,” Lance said, narrowing his eyes at Keith. “I’m still salty.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have smashed into my room.” Keith kicked his shoes against the wall, next to Lance’s, and tucked his keys inside, piling his wallet and phone on top.

“Maybe you should have let me in and then kindly asked me out.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have forced yourself in multiple times.” Keith bowed onto the floor and stretched along the edge of the mats, as far as he could be from Lance.

“I don’t know Lance well,” the woman said, swiping her foot at something small littering the floor. “But I know his type. You are Keith, I assume. Lance was fanboying over your mullet and boy-band looks for the past fifteen minutes.”

“Excuse me?” Lance’s expression was flat disapproval. “You mistake fanboying for decrying.”

“They sound nothing alike.” The woman went across the floor, to the back. She bowed off. “You should stand up. Didn’t your mom ever teach that if you hold a position for too long, you’ll get stuck?”

Lance gestured to his splits. “I like spreading my legs.”

“Nothing to say to that.” The woman went down the back hall, disappearing from view.

Lance brought his legs in to a butterfly stretch and pushed his knees to the ground. His flexibility was better than Keith’s.

“That’s Master Karen,” Lance said. “She’s here most evenings.”

“Is there loaner gear here?” Keith said. He’d left all his gear at home, weapons and protective pads, because he hadn’t expected to do any martial arts in Altea.

“You really want to get your ass beat, huh,” Lance said, like it was a fact.

“I’ll beat your ass,” Keith said and flipped his middle finger.

Lance wolf whistled. “And eat my cake?”

Keith _knew_ there was something sexual about that. He wasn’t asking about it, though—wasn’t giving Lance what he wanted when he was arching his eyebrow like a sleazy prick.

“You totally don’t know what I just said,” Lance said.

“And I don’t care.”

“I see it in your eyes. You’re curious.” Lance angled his head down, brazenly looking through his long eyelashes at Keith. “What is my cake, and why would you want to eat it?”

“Lance, no, don’t do it,” Hunk said, hurriedly bowing into the Academy.

Behind Hunk was Pidge, and then Shiro. They bowed in one at a time, both at steep angles.

“Y’all carpooled here?” Lance said.

The team gathered on the floor, Shiro, Pidge, and Hunk beginning their stretches. Everyone but Lance was wearing casual workout clothing. Shiro wore form-fitting sweatpants and a baggy V-neck that looked more suited for bed.

“Yes,” Pidge said. “We saved gas. We’re helping the environment.”

“Global warming is a hoax created by the liberal media to attack the wealthy,” Lance said smoothly, stretching his arm across his chest.

Pidge made a fist and stuck his thumb in his mouth. He blew, and as though he was inflating a balloon, his middle finger slowly unfurled.

“Lance, how could you?” Hunk groaned and flopped onto his back, clutching at his chest with both hands as though his heart pained him. “I thought you cared. Mother Earth, she is dying…and you push her needs aside for your merciless corporations.”

“Try counting your money when you can’t breathe,” Pidge fired at Lance.

“He’s joking,” Keith said, unsettled by Pidge’s reaction. “Isn’t he?”

The fury bled from Pidge’s face in seconds. He said, “Of course he is.”

“Dude!” Lance cackled. “Your face was all”—Lance paused and molded his laughing expression into exaggerated shock—“wut.”

“Wut!” Hunk snapped upright into sitting. “HAH! Wut. I forgot about that one.”

“All right, guys,” Shiro said after a chuckle Keith almost didn’t catch. “Let’s focus on stretching so we don’t have a repeat of last time.”

“Isn’t this the first meeting?” Keith said.

“We’ve had a couple training sessions before you were induct—dude!” Lance crawled to Keith and sat in front of him, their knees brushing together. “You haven’t been inducted.”

The gleam in Lance’s dilated eyes said one thing: induction was synonymous with hazing. A jolt went through Keith’s spine. He scooted his leg aside to free his knee, but he really wanted to drag his entire body to the other side of the floor—preferably with the team between him and Lance.

Hunk sputtered a belly laugh. “He knows, man. He _knows_.”

“Lance,” Shiro said with the resigned grace of a parent who knew his child wasn’t going to listen, “the club regulations are specifically designed to prevent inductions. You can’t do…what you want to do.”

“That’s why we have two advisors,” Pidge said. “Twice the eyes for a dangerous club.”

“Dangerous? Do you not….?” Hunk gestured wildly to everyone on the team. “We’re nothing compared to the Game Board Club.”

“That was hell,” Pidge said and stared at nothing.

“Aren’t you a freshman?” Keith asked.

“It was during Cub Week,” Hunk said for Pidge, who was stuck in a flashback.

“I block punches and kicks, not flying game-board pieces,” Pidge said, eyes unmoving.

Pidge and Lance’s college experiences had started before orientation, before they committed to LU. Was that what Keith was missing? He had no pre-college adventures on campus, excluding orientation. No Spring Preview sessions, no college tours, no Cub Week, and no self-tours.

“Keith’s dangerous,” Lance drawled. “He needs multiple eyes on him.”

One of the key techniques in tae kwon do was evading; if you couldn’t evade, you defended yourself. So Keith evaded whatever trap Lance was pulling him into, and asked Shiro, “What did you train in?”

“I see how it is,” Lance said and got to his feet. He kicked his legs and arms out. “I’m doing poomsae. Don’t bother me.”

“Same,” Pidge said, summersaulting to his feet. “Nailed it.”

Hunk also rolled to his feet, but landed in a crouch and smacked his palm on the mat to hold his balance. Keith felt the impact through the mat.

“That was a freaking 3.0,” Lance shouted from the end of the mats closest to the front doors.

“How ‘bout this?” Pidge took several spinning steps forward, then launched off the ground, arcing his legs into the air, his torso almost parallel to the ground, his arms spreading up like wings. His landing was a soft whisper against the mats as he spun into another butterfly kick.

“1.0,” Lance said.

Pidge threw his fists into the air. “Feels so good!”

“Amazing,” Keith said.

“It took me forever to learn that.” Pidge pin-wheeled his arms a few times before swinging into another butterfly.

Keith hadn’t done a butterfly in weeks. He didn’t think his body was up to performing without the introductory exercises.

“I studied a mixture of tae kwon do and MMA,” Shiro said.

Keith tried to recall the context of their conversation, but Lance was starting his poomsae and it was beautiful from the start, with Lance dropping into a horse stance so low that Keith gaped. Lance was flexible—he’d effortlessly done the splits and butterfly stretch, after all—and Keith knew that would translate to deep stances, but the surprise was the same.

Lance slid his weight distribution to his back leg, pivoting his lead foot to point forward, and seamlessly transitioned into a cat stance. He stepped back, legs bent and weight distributed evenly as his hands wove into blocks and strikes. He spun, blocking and countering imaginary attacks, breathing hard on the techniques he held in place. His focus was dead-set on his form, his eyes fixed on his invisible opponents.

Pidge was walking Hunk through a poomsae that was stance heavy, but they also were drawn to Lance’s poomsae, and there were moments where Hunk seemed to forget he was sitting in a stance with his hands chambered for a technique.

Lance flowed into each movement, striking hard like a wave on certain techniques. He moved like he didn’t have joints, like he didn’t feel his knees creak when they supported his deep stances. There were portions where his head stayed low and his legs bent.

“He choreographed that for his black belt presentation,” Shiro said lowly.

Keith hadn’t had a formal presentation. He’d tested for his black belt over three days and had received his belt two-weeks later when he was helping his grandmaster close the dojang after the Monday night adult class. His grandmaster had tapped him in the back with the folded belt, then dragged him by his red belt to the center of the floor.

Keith had held up his arms as his grandmaster swapped his belts.

The informality of the ceremony had astonished Keith because nothing had changed between him and his grandmaster. They weren’t any more equal than they had been before Keith’s achievement. Strangely, he felt lesser in rank, and he looked at the black fabric around his waist as though it was just that.

His grandmaster asked how it felt, and he hadn’t known what to say without being dishonest or sounding ungrateful.

“I feel the same,” Keith had said, poking at the stiff ends of his belt that stuck out like cardboard. “And I like it.”

“You’ll always be my student.”

Keith had swallowed his tears because he had never cried in front of his grandmaster, and he was terrified it would trigger a change in their relationship that he’d forever blame on his black belt. His grandmaster had hugged him, and it was an unseen side of his rough personality that coaxed Keith into sobbing like a child.

“Keith.” Shiro had moved to sit next to him. “You all right there?”

“Yeah, just a memory.”

Shiro gave Keith’s shoulder a squeeze.

“Damn, son. That stance is—” Lance made a circle with his finger and thumb.

He had stopped his poomsae and was watching Hunk go through the first steps of Pidge’s form. Hunk had phenomenal control over his stances. He powered through a volley of running punches, his steps light and his fists fast.

“Mowed ‘em.” Lance laughed, turning his gaze to Keith. A strange expression flashed on his face for a second, like a bulb going bright before exploding. He broke into a weak grin and continued watching Hunk. “Hey, do that thing again.”

“What thing?” Hunk recoiled his side kick and landed in a horse stance.

“The running punching thing.”

“Why?” Pidge said.

“Because it was aesthetically pleasing.”

Shiro’s hand fell from Keith’s shoulder, grazing his bare arm as it slipped to the floor. Their pinkies touched. Keith’s hand was on fire.

“Were you remembering your dojang?” Shiro said.

“How’d you know?”

“You drifted when you saw my dog calendar. I assumed the same happened here.”

“Drifted” was a nice way to put it. It sounded better than “zoning out” and getting “sucked” into his memories. It suggested grace and smooth traveling. Drifting into an ocean of memories he hadn’t thought the world of until he moved to Altea.

“I did a lot of drifting when I was a freshman,” Shiro said. “I thought of my family all the time. They popped in my head unpredictably. It was as though the memory box in my head couldn’t stay shut and was spilling random memories at random intervals. I’d be taking an exam and I’d suddenly hear my mom’s booming laugh, or I’d see my sister playing the guitar in the living room while my parents danced.”

“Do you still drift?” Keith asked, pressing their pinkies together harder.

“Not as much. The counseling service at the Student Health Center really helped me. Perhaps you’d like to give it a try?”

Counseling seemed designated for people who had it harder than Keith. He had never considered it before. It had worked for Shiro, and he was doing fine now.

Keith smiled. “I might look into it.”

Shiro patted the top of Keith’s hand.

“Woooooah there. Is Keith smiling?” Lance gasped, a hand to his chest. “Keith? Smiling? This is a milestone!”

Keith wasn’t smiling anymore. He wouldn’t be smiling for the rest of the night.

“This isn’t a sitting club, ya know. Get up and do something.” Lance sighed in exasperation. He turned to Pidge and Hunk and clapped for them to get moving; they had paused their poomsae to watch his brief one-sided exchange with Keith.

Do something? How could Keith resist when Lance had used such a condescending voice?

“Lance,” Keith said. He hadn’t raised his voice, but it boomed through the dojang.

Lance turned, arms swinging and eyebrows peaked. “Yup?”

“Do we have any rebreakable boards?”

Lance sucked his lips into his mouth and narrowed his eyes. If he though Keith had an underlying motive, he couldn’t be more wrong. He freed his lips and said, “Yeah. I think so.”

“Can you get me the highest difficulty?”

“What am I? Your maid?”

“Servant,” Pidge said.

Lance went to get the board, anyway. He went to the back hall and returned with a black rebreakable board that had handles.

Keith hadn’t used reusable boards much; he loved the feel of breaking through wood too much to invest in a long-term replacement. He’d dropped over $200 in bulk purchases of pine boards in the past year, addicted to the splintery crack the boards made under a successful hit.

“I’m not holding for you,” Lance said, swinging the board into Keith’s hand.

“I wasn’t asking.”

Shiro cleared his throat and stood. “I can hold.”

“Thank you.” Keith took joy in Lance’s irritated expression.

Keith and Shiro took up the strip of mat near the back wall, and Lance returned to Hunk and Pidge.

“It’s been a while since I held a board,” Shiro said, as though embarrassed to admit it.

Keith demonstrated the proper holding stance: front let bent, back leg stretched behind, and arms stretched forward with the board gripped tightly.

Shiro got it with his first try, but Keith fidgeted with the pose because he could. He nudged Shiro’s back leg an inch to the side and lifted Shiro’s wrists by a touch. He pushed on the board with his hand. Shiro pushed back—and was smiling. He must have been smiling the whole time.

It was hard not to smile back. Keith chewed it down, keeping his lip between his teeth. He stood in front of the board, placing his foot against the board to determine his range.

He took a large step back to account for his wind-up step. Shiro’s smile was wrecking his insides. He couldn’t focus.

“Forgot how to kick?” Lance shouted over.

Keith snapped forward, driving through the board with a side kick. He held the kick for a breath, his extended leg raised several degrees higher than horizontal. He found Lance’s face in the background and glared as he recoiled his knee to his chest, then placed it on the ground.

“Again,” he said, not looking at Shiro until he heard the board pieces slide together.

He stood perpendicular to Shiro, facing Lance—and Hunk and Pidge, who were now watching—and whipped his leg in a 360 turn, breaking through the board with his heel.

“Bravo!” Coran applauded.

Everyone on the floor snapped their heads toward the back entrance. Coran and Allura, both dressed in red uniform pants and a black t-shirt with a silver lion printed on front, were dropping off their bags along the wall.

“What the heck, Coran,” Lance said. He stretched his arms in the air in disbelief. “You come thirty minutes late and you don’t bring any Starbucks?”

“Sorry,” Coran said. “The meeting went overtime because a certain knucklehead had too much to contribute to the Q&A.”

“They were good questions,” Allura said, wrapping her long hair into a neat bun.

“Don’t defend her.” Coran stepped onto the floor.

“You have beautiful form, Keith,” Allura said, sliding over to Shiro to take the board. “Show me a front kick.”

She steadied for the hit, and Keith broke through.

“No kiyap?” She slotted together the two board pieces.

“I breathed.”

She held the board out, standing firmer than before. “Show us a kiyap.”

Keith wasn’t fond of loud kiyaps. They drew too much attention.

“I’d rather not,” Keith said.

Lance and his poomsae group had gathered closer, standing alongside Coran and Shiro.

“Why? You a screamer?” Lance said.

“Shut up,” Pidge said. It sounded more like “shad ap.”

“Zero tolerance,” Master Karen said. She was leaning against the back hallway wall divisor—seemed to have been there for a while. “Zero. Tolerance.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Lance sighed. “It was a joke.”

“Joke or not, it’s not tolerated. Watch your mouth or I will shred the club agreement. I’ve got a brand new cross-shredder in my office that makes the loveliest sounds.”

Keith whipped his elbow through the board while everyone’s but Allura’s attention was on Master Karen.

“I’m done,” Keith said. He bowed as he took the board pieces from Allura.

A soft tug in his gut guided his eyes to Lance, who seemed to running something through his thoughts. He smiled absently.

“Let me hold for you,” he said, shocking everyone into looking at him.

Keith was proud of the horror on their faces; they believed that Keith had the strength to tear Lance apart, and that Lance was an idiot for wanting to put himself behind a board that Keith would be breaking.

At his dojang, students would avoid him by partnering up before class started, unwilling to go against someone enjoyed literally kicking his opponents out of the ring. It was like that here, with the team wearing the same looks of his classmates’.

Keith fixed the board and gave it to Lance.

“Can you do a one inch punch?” Lance asked.

“One inch?” Keith had never heard of it.

“I can show you.”

Keith stiffened at Lance’s fluttery voice. It had a warm undertone that flushed through his chest.

Hunk stretched his arms over his head and went toward the other side of the mats. “I’m gonna go do some forms.”

“Same,” Pidge said.

“I’ll come,” Coran said.

“Shiro?” Allura said. She followed the other three.

Shiro touched Lance’s shoulder. “Don’t injure yourself.” He joined the rest of the team.

Master Karen was the only one watching—until she grunted a thoughtful sound and went around the wall to the hall.

“Got you all to myself.” Lance handed Keith the board and didn’t stop there; he placed each of Keith’s hands on the respective handles, wrapping his fingers around Keith’s to tighten the hold.

Keith’s reaction was limited to freezing up and letting Lance manhandle him into a holding stance.

“You didn’t punch me,” Lance said.

Keith scowled. “Not when we’re surrounded by people.”

Lance stood close to the board in a loose fighting stance. “Cute hair, b-t-dubs. I want to tug it.”

“Shut up.”

“Or you’ll put me in a headlock?”

Lance held his bent arm out to the board, uncurling his fist so that the flats of his fingers between his knuckles touched the board. Then he curled his fingers back in, making a loose fist. His arm relaxed—then shot forward, tensing his entire arm as he thrusting his fist through the board—only by an inch. He didn’t extend all the way.

“The trick is to keep your arm and fist relaxed until you make impact,” Lance said. “That’s where most of the power is generated. Want to try?”

Keith had to. He pushed the board pieces at Lance.

“Don’t worry if you don’t get it the first time.” Lance set up the board.

“You’d like that.” Keith broke through and kept his fist within an inch of following through.

Lance didn’t seem impressed, and it pissed Keith off.

“Can you do a 540 roundhouse?” Keith said.

“I can do any kick you name.” Lance swaggered into Keith’s personal bubble and grinned. Small waves of deodorant and a weirdly pleasant muskiness wafted into Keith’s nostrils. “But, I will not do the scorpion kick because that shit looks terrifying.”

The scorpion kick involved bringing up your leg _behind_ you so you could kick an opponent—much like a scorpion striking with its tail. It required incredible flexibility and was more useful in demonstrations than in self-defense situations—and Keith was never going to attempt it.

“Can you do a 540?” Lance said.

They were almost chest-to-chest and Keith’s thoughts were scrambling.

“Yeah,” Keith said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Lance stepped back. Cold air rushed into Keith’s lungs.

Lance gestured to the mats. A wicked gleam flashed in his eyes. “Then do it.”

A 540 kick was one of the more advanced kicks Keith had learned. It hadn’t been part of his curriculum, as it was more flashy than practical. It was a jump spinning kick that involved the practitioner jumping in the air, doing a spinning roundhouse kick, and landing on the kicking foot.

Keith had struggled with it for weeks, unable to stick his landing. Landing was the most dangerous part of the kick. Rolling ankles and falling and landing improperly were enough reasons for Keith to practice the kick only in the company of his instructors.

“Sure,” Keith said.

He did a few leg stretches, then went to the empty strip of mat in front of him, where Lance couldn’t distract him. He stood with his right leg forward, then stepped forth with his left leg, turned into his right shoulder, and kicked.

His right leg chambered toward his chest as his left leg kicked over, swinging through the air.

_Don’t fuck up don’t fuck up don’t fuck up._

He didn’t fuck up.

He stuck his landing.

“He did that!” Hunk shouted into his cupped hands. “He did that!”

“Excellent height,” Allura said, clapping with Coran, who also blew an undulating whistle.

 _“He’s soarin’…flyin’….”_ Hunk stretched his arms into an airplane and flew to Pidge.

Pidge put out his arms and coasted around Hunk. “There’s not a star in heaven that he can’t reach.”

 _“If he’s trying…. Yeah, he’s breaking free,”_ Lance sang, flying over to Hunk and Pidge.

 _“Oh, he’s breakin’ free,”_ Hunk sang, face solemn as he and Lance flew circles around Pidge.

Pidge turned in a circle. _“Oh, can you feel it building. Like a wave the ocean just can’t control.”_

 _“Sing with us!”_ Lance swung his hands together to point both his fingers at Keith.

“I don’t know this song,” Keith said. This was the first time he had heard it.

Lance looked personally insulted, and then offended on everyone’s behalf. The others were confused—except for Coran and Shiro. They looked like they were ready to retire for the night.

“It’s a national anthem, dude. How do you not know it?” Lance gaped.

“I don’t blame him,” Coran said. “I don’t understand your generation’s music at all. The whipping and the nae-nae’ing and the pandas. It’s too much to comprehend. When I was your age—”

“Please,” Shiro said, almost begging. “Coran, please don’t.”

Allura smiled at their bickering. She sang, _“Connected by a feeling, oh, in our very souls.”_

“Thank you,” Lance said loudly. “For a moment I thought we were collapsing into anarchy.”

The team picked up the song, Coran and Shiro the only ones stepping aside, but they somehow played a vital part in the singing. Keith felt a tide pushing him backward, out of the dojang. He wanted to obey. Leave and go to his dorm.

But that was quitting. And he’d done enough of that.

He wanted the college experience his parents had. He wanted to be happy. Make friends. Explore Altea with all of them. Sleep over in their dorm rooms—except not Lance’s. Sleeping in the same room as Lance was dangerous. Keith would choke him in his sleep.

“Taking baby steps is common advice because it is so relevant,” his mother’s voice said in his head, a fragment of a long-ago speech. “Baby steps to walking, baby steps to your black belt, baby steps to your license. Take it slow, steady, and don’t be afraid to fall your first couple of steps.”

He had already taken baby steps by joining the club, going to dinner, and coming tonight. He hadn’t fallen—yet. Maybe he had and he hadn’t noticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've had stomach issues the past couple of days so it took me a while to get this out.
> 
> next update should come sooner. unless i get sicker. ugh. orz
> 
> song credit: "breaking free" - zac efron, vanessa hudgens


	6. full step

They weren’t friends. Yet, somehow it made sense that Lance was treating Keith like they had never gotten off on the wrong foot. No, that wasn’t completely true. Lance was still—what was the word he had used?— _salty_ about the headlock and Keith’s viciousness, but that wasn’t keeping him from texting Keith every day and asking him out to breakfast, lunch, dinner, and even midnight snacking, which technically was 11 p.m snacking because it ended at midnight.

The first couple of days, Keith responded with variations of **No thanks** and **Thanks, but I’m busy**. Then he downright ignored Lance. He ate his breakfast in the cafeteria, brought his lunch and dinner to his dorm, and tried not to rush knowing that Lance had a two-story view of Keith walking to Mane Hall.

Keith didn’t run into Lance on campus until Tuesday, the day before the second club meeting. Keith was walking to the cafeteria after his second class, and Lance was standing in the hall with a group of Latino students chatting in high-speed Spanish. Keith had taken Spanish for three years in high school, freshman to junior year, but a lot of it was gone. He couldn’t speak Spanish well, but he could understand bits of it.

He walked by them, pretending not to have noticed Lance, who was so deep in his talk about someone _diciendo_ this and _haciendo_ that, that he could have looked Keith straight in the face and not recognized him. That’s what Keith thought, and as most of his thoughts about Lance went, it was dead wrong.

“Hey, Keith! How does the ball roll?”

Keith was five paces ahead. He should have continued onward. But Lance’s accented voice had him stopping and turning. He stood to the side to let the flow of cafeteria-bound students through.

Lance’s friends were all smiling at him. They looked friendly, too, not like the biting kind who viewed any newcomer as a threat to their balance.

“This is Keith, one of the guys in my martial arts club,” Lance said, gesturing for Keith to stand closer.

“I have to go. Somewhere.”

“Dude, seriously?”

“Yeah. I have to go somewhere.”

“Where?”

Keith saw an opening in flow of cafeteria-bound students. He darted in, almost colliding with a few bodies. He slipped through the gaps as the presented themselves between fast and slow moving students, zigzagging his way to the cafeteria. There wasn’t a line yet, so he slipped in and out, and then hurried to his dorm, taking a shortcut through the strips of grass that separated Mane from the underclassman quad.

He didn’t have an essay to write because he had torn through it on Monday, taking breaks to work on his other homework. Livingston, for all his hard speech, had a soft spot for loading his students’ shoulders with ten-page essays as the other Great Works professors did. So all his essays were a minimum of two pages with no maximum, but each page had to be stuffed with information. Not a single word could be useless. Keith was great with objective essays; he struggled with creative writing more than nonfiction.

The remaining homework in his school-provided planner was to reread the creation myths and study for the first astronomy quiz. Normally, he’d jump into them. But rereading was a bore since he had read it twice: once in his dorm and once in class as a group, and he wasn’t in the mood to study his chicken scratch notes about the formation of the moon.

He ate lunch on his bed and browsed through the new chapters uploaded to the manga sites he frequented. None of his series had updated.

Homework it was.

He reread the creation myths without digesting any new details. He studied without retaining any of his notes.

“Ugh.” He flopped on his back and stared the ceiling.

Boredom weighed on his chest.

He could start a new anime. Check out books at the library. There was a large selection of fiction on the back shelves on the first floor. Keith hadn’t read much before college, allocating his time to studying and tae kwon do.

His dojang was open seven days a week, morning to night. Most schools closed early on Saturdays and completely on Sundays. His grandmaster was kind enough to have open floors on Sunday for students who wanted to practice on the mats or hang with students from other classes.

Sundays were Keith’s. He opened the school, oversaw its operation, and locked up at the end of the day. His grandmaster popped in when Keith needed help with ballistic unsupervised sparring or rowdy friends-of-students who didn’t do tae kwon do—or any martial arts—and wanted a punching bag to vent their anger.

If he was near Cupertino, he’d spend the rest of his day at the dojang. He’d spend _all_ his non-academic time there—for studying, too. All he needed were his notes, textbooks, and laptop.

He wondered what his grandmaster was doing now.

He wondered if he was being replaced.

“Keith. Keith. Keith,” Lance chanted through Keith’s too thin door. “Open sesame.”

“Shut up.” But Keith climbed down his ladder and answered the door.

Lance lifted off his heels, hands behind his back. “Can I come in?” He sounded like a child asking to play.

“No.”

“Please?” Lance pouted.

“No.”

“Pretty please with marshmallows on top?” Lance angled his head down, leading Keith’s attention to his rounded, puppy eyes.

“So you can do what? Bother me? Trash my room? Hog my chair?”

“You can come to my place. I have a double all to myself so there’s twice the room than in here.”

Keith opened the door wider and leaned on the frame, using his foot as a door stop. “No roommate?”

“We had an argument. He lost. He packed his shit and moved to another hall. I don’t know where because whatever-the-fuck part of the dorm agreement says he has the right to remain mysterious. Lucky for me, I won’t be charged additional fees for hogging a double. I pay less than you and I get twice the space.” Lance leaned in, angling his body away from the big guy coming down the hall. “It’s the one nice thing the old white people did for me.”

“Yo.” The big guy walked by, making a clicking sound against his eyetooth and winking. Keith thought he was winking. Or he was squinting.

“Yellow,” Lance said.

The guy’s smooth swagger hit a few bumps as he looked back, his confusion shining through his smile.

“Uh, blue?” the guy said.

“What’s ‘yellow’?” Keith said, keeping his voice to a whisper because he didn’t want to breathe on Lance.

Lance’s eyes shone. “It’s how white people answer their phones.”

Keith kept his face blank while Lance struggled to hold in his laughter. His eyes watered and his lips quivered, like something was physically going to push out if he didn’t keep his lips pressed into a tight line.

“Is it supposed to be funny?” Keith said.

Lance trembled with a soft laugh, shoulders bunching up and down. He said, “Duh.”

He was full of bubbly youth, and Keith wanted to smack it out of him. They were in college. College students were walking zombies fueled with caffeine and the distant promise of the weekend.

“I’ve never heard someone say that,” Keith said.

“Maybe it’s because your hometown is a super Asian city. More yellow faces and less yellow greetings.” Lance grinned at his joke—if that was a joke—and Keith stared flatly at him.

“All right. That was kind of shitty. I’ll apologize with a treat. Come to my room,” Lance said, and Keith’s cheeks thought it was appropriate to warm in response.

He’d never been invited to a friend’s house in high school for one-on-one time. There had been a handful of parties, but they’d been the red cup types that Keith was too paranoid to attend. Drunks everywhere, alcohol and drugs dotting every flat surface, sex in every room, and people pissing in bushes. Not his scene.

Another day, Keith might have turned down Lance. Slammed the door on his invitation.

But Keith had nothing else to do today, and he wasn’t creative enough to fill the hours until dinner with non-homework activities. He had already caught up to the horror manga’s current chapter, watched the first season of its anime adaption, and had no other manga or anime series to drown in.

His social media presence was nonexistent, and he wasn’t going to cave in and make a Facebook or a Twitter or a Tumblr—though he’d rather make a Tumblr than anything else because of the fandoms, and he was sure there was a fandom for the manga and anime he followed.

Anxiety tugged on him. This was an open door. His parents would be urging him to take it.

“Don’t pull games on me.” Keith rounded up his phone, keys, and wallet, then locked up while steadfastly ignoring Lance’s close company.

“I’m shocked. Like, wow. You’re coming.”

“Whatever. Lead the way.”

Keith thought the whole double-is-now-my-single situation wasn’t as glossy as Lance’s self-assured voice suggested, but he allowed himself to show his surprise when Lance opened his blank door and revealed a spacious room decked out with posters, wall stickers, a small flat screen TV atop the drawer screwed into a corner of the room, and a desk-turned-dining-table complete with a flower vase at its center, and two fluffy stools tucked under.

The second bunk was gone, and with Lance’s bunk on its highest setting, he had all the room he needed for a tiny apartment. He’d taken off the shelves on his former roommate’s desk and pushed the converted dining table in front of the window. The blinds were drawn open, the glass was clean, swirls of dried cleaning fluid visible—and Keith was jealous.

“Not fair,” Keith said.

“It’s part of the school’s white savior reputation. Give the poor brown students discounts so they’ll defend you when the discrimination accusations roll in.” Lance tossed his keys on his homework-strewn desk and pulled out his chair, which absolutely not the standard wooden chair the college provided; it was a business quality chair with thick pads and a spinning base.

Lance rolled into his desk and pulled a textbook closer. Keith doubted he was going to start working, and he was right; confusion flitted over Lance’s face, then he shoved his textbook shut and pushed away from his desk, rolling to the middle of the room.

“I’m not groveling for anyone,” Lance said. “I’m milking this luxury for all it’s worth. Have a sit on one of my luxurious Walmart-bought stools. Don’t worry about the fur. It’s faux.”

Keith pooled his belongings on the table and pulled out one of the stools. It was colored with white and black droplets that curved into each other to form ying and yang.

“You’re amazed. I can tell.” Lance spun in his chair. “My older sister and I shared rooms back home, so this is a total upgrade. I even get a maid who cleans the toilets and showers across the hall.”

Had this been Keith’s first time hearing Lance saying such things, he’d have been struck in place by disgust, but Keith now heard the undertone of play. First impressions disguised the smallest details—the ones that mattered the most and revealed the largest pieces of a person’s personality.

Lance’s pieces combined to form an irritating goofball who paid little mind to the filter behind his mouth.

“You have an older sister?” Keith said.

Lance spun his chair until he faced Keith, then he slouched, kicking out his long legs. “Three. Beatriz, Carmen, and Isabela. I’m the only son.”

“I’m an only child. My parents wanted—” The next words got stuck in his throat. It wasn’t any of Lance’s business anyway. He pointed at the TV. “Does that work?”

Lance was visibly stuck in a confusing thought.

“The TV?” Keith said louder. “Does it work?”

“Why? Wanna Netflix and chill?” Lance was barely out of his thoughtful daze. “Got a show you like to watch?”

Keith watched the news—local mostly—and that was it.

“Let me guess. You don’t watch TV,” Lance said, popping up from his leathery chair to take the stool next to Keith.

Keith expected to feel the burning need to defend himself, but all that burned him were his cheeks. Lance was sitting way closer than necessary, their stools’ neighboring legs less than a foot apart. If Keith sat normally, their bare arms would touch and his cheeks were not okay with that outcome.

“Keith,” Lance said, elbow propped on the table and head on his fist as he slyly regarded Keith, “you intrigue me.”

“Intrigue” wasn’t a Lance word, but in that tone it utterly belonged to him.

“You don’t have a Facebook, do you?” Lance said, still using that unpleasantly…pleasant voice that Keith really didn’t like but also thought sounded interesting when coupled with Lance’s lopsided smile and cunning eyes—and oh hell, why was Lance so close to his face?

Keith moved his stool a couple feet to the side. He shook his head.

“No Instagram?”

Another head shake.

“Twitter, Pintrest, Vine, Tumblr, YouTube?”

Head shakes to all of those.

“Any social media?”

“Nothing,” Keith said.

Lance pursed his lips and thought about that—assumedly, and Keith thought about Lance’s closeness and how he wanted to bash Lance’s head into the table for doing that elbow and head thing with the squinting eyes. There was something powerful about that combination—something that had to be scientifically backed.

“I didn’t have time for that stuff,” Keith continued, because Lance was still thinking and Keith didn’t want to think about Lance’s psychological tricks any longer. “After school I did my homework, then I went to my dojang and stayed there until closing. Then I went home, ate dinner, washed up, and went to bed.”

“Now you have time.” Lance popped a finger gun at Keith’s face.

Keith flicked it aside with the knife of his hand.

“Ooh. Knife-hand block. So fancy.” Lance smiled.

“So basic,” Keith said.

“Pretty much. So, you wanna watch some TV? Open some accounts? I bet your mullet would get at least a thousand notes on Tumblr. Your face alone would get a thousand notes. I can imagine one of the tags”—Lance traced a headline in the air with his hand—“’he can destroy my ass.’”

Keith scrunched his eyebrows together. “’Destroy my ass’?”

“If you want.” Lance shrugged.

“Want what? I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

Lance cocked his mouth in contemplation, then said, “You need to be educated on modern speech.”

Something popped in Keith’s head. “Pardon?”

“’Pardon’ shouldn’t be part of your casual vocab. Save it for sarcastic or passive aggressive comments.”

Keith took a calming breath. He said sweetly, “Pardon?”

“Like that!” Lance held up a hand for a high five. “Up top!”

Keith smacked their palms together. Both snapped their hands back and wrung them out.

“Words of wisdom,” Lance said. He winced. “Nobody wins a head butt, and nobody wins a hard high five.”

“Two forces can’t cancel out each other,” Keith reiterated his grandmaster’s words. He smiled and clenched his hand, closing himself to the pain that spiked from his palm to his fingertips.

“You’re smiling,” Lance whispered, leaning close and giving those words an air of secretiveness.

Keith didn’t have an offensive retort, and that was fine because his mother’s words popped into his head: _“Taking baby steps is common advice because it is so relevant. Take it slow, steady, and don’t be afraid to fall your first couple of steps.”_

He had to take his baby steps toward…. He didn’t know what this mutation of acquaintance was, but it was favorable to remaining a hermit, and Lance wasn’t as horrible as he had been last week. He was bearable. A kid cousin who never shut up, who Keith tolerated for the sake of being a good person.

“What did I say? Was it my words of wisdom?” Lance said eagerly. “I have lot more wisdom to impart on you, young cricket.”

_Baby steps._

“Teach me your jokes. I don’t understand most of them.”

“The gift of language, I shall bestow upon your benevolent mind, which seeks the golden beam of wisdom and—whatever.” Lance waved it away, abruptly cutting off his cartoonish accent. “We should start with what I’ve already said. What’s something you want translated to simple English?”

“Destroy my ass.”

Lance whistled sharply. “Okay. Going for the goods.” He lowered his voice. “You do know what ‘going for the goods’ means…right?”

Keith didn’t roll his eyes, and it didn’t feel bad holding it back. “Yes, I’m familiar with that one.”

“Good. Well, destroying someone’s ass is like saying you want them to roughen you up when you—uh….” Lance chuckled. “It’s like taking someone from behind and just…going at it. You know…?”

Keith internally combusted. Lance had been joking, of course. Nothing to punch him over.

_Baby steps._

The guys Keith were around in high school had popped plenty of filthy jokes. They were never directed at him—mostly being aimed at other guys. Keith should be used to this.

“Uh, how about ‘wut’?”

“It’s like a stupefied version of saying ‘what.’ You’re so shocked all you can manage is a derpy ‘wut.’ It’s a meme. You know what a meme is?”

“I’ve heard of it.” Keith had glimpsed the word in the comment boxes of his manga sites. He hadn’t looked into it because it was tied closely to Internet culture, and he was repulsed by the idea of being so close to billions of strangers on a virtual world that was assessable through devices he could fit in his pocket. The whole world at his fingertips—it wasn’t a pretty thought. It sickened him.

“Yeah, anyway, ‘wut’ is normally attached to a picture of an old white lady who looks like a thumb.”

Keith couldn’t think of other words to ask about. Lance waited, his smile buzzing with contagious confidence.

“That’s all I remember specifically.”

“Only two? Then I’ll teach you more.” Lance cracked his knuckles. “You ready?”

#

There could be an entire semester-long college course on memes and slang and Internet culture, Keith realized as Lance went off tangent and lectured about the intricate workings of a world Keith had avoided since he was a child being taught the dangers of social media.

Bad people will get you, his father had cautioned. Now people his age were meeting online first and in-person second, thanks to social media fandoms and chat groups and other venues Lance knew as well as he did the back of his hand.

Keith didn’t retain half of what Lance taught. There were too many words, concepts, and references to remember—or even understand what made them funny. Dabbing was weird, the cake that was a lie was weird, pepe the frog was weird, doge (Keith couldn’t remember how to pronounce that) was weird, and “Netflix and chilling” equating to hooking up was weird.

Keith was vaguely uncomfortable thinking about Lance’s invitation to “Netflix and chill”—and that led him to recall the thinly disguised jokes Lance had made at the dojang. He’d called Keith a screamer. The memory roiled Keith’s stomach. It was the first time he knew he was the source of sexually tinged comments—and he was sure there had been other jokes he hadn’t caught. He didn’t like the sick feeling in his gut.

He nodded his head to Lance talking about scrolling through his Tumblr dashboard and drowning in the snowball effect of goats licking mountains.

“What’s so funny about minerals?” Keith asked, and Lance exclaimed, slamming a fist on the table, “I don’t know! It just is!”

Keith flinched, not at Lance’s violent reaction; Lance had leaned close, as he was apt to do when talking directly to Keith. If he was looking out the window or at some point in the room, he didn’t particularly lean toward Keith, but if his eyes were anywhere on Keith—eyes, face, hand, foot (he liked Keith’s shoes, Keith guessed)—he angled his body like he wasn’t close enough. And so Keith found himself constantly evading Lance’s closeness. They moved like repelled magnets. Lance advanced, Keith retreated.

“You’re approachable today,” Lance said.

“I don’t think that would have changed anything.”

“True. But you’re nicer today. You’re not punching me or calling me names. It’s like we’re friends.” Lance batted his eyelashes. “Are we?”

_Baby steps._

“Don’t push it. I’ll still punch you. And I still want our sparring match.”

“Tomorrow night. We’ll do it. _Hard._ ”

And Keith would beat Lance’s ass into yesterday.

“After I win, we’ll have smoothies at Pidge’s and Hunk’s place. Their blender is off the charts awesome. It purrs like a cat.”

“You’re not winning,” Keith said.

“Yes, I am.”

Lance’s stare penetrated Keith and unraveled the thick knots of his insides.

“Keep telling yourself that. You’ll need the confidence.” Keith glanced aside. His eyes landed on a landscape poster of a beach. White-blue waves rolled on shore and seagulls coasted in the cloudless sky.

“Want to watch TV?”

Keith looked at Lance. “TV?”

“TV.”

“Sure?”

Lance grabbed the remote from the top of the drawer and flicked on the screen. He pushed a few buttons, opened Netflix, and browsed through dozens of titles.

He turned a mischievous look on Keith. “Ever watched _Mean Girls_?”

“No.”

“All righty. We’re set. Jump on board.” Lance kicked off his shoes and climbed the ladder to his bunk.

He wanted…Keith up there? On his bed? Where he slept and did…Lance stuff?

“Up, up, Peter Pan with the mullet. Up, up and away.” Lance patted his bunk.

“Why?”

“Because it’s comfy up here and the TV is angled this way. Duh.”

This was not a baby step, but Keith wasn’t going to fall from sitting on a bed. It was pretty high, though. He toed off his shoes and joined Lance, finding himself sitting between Lance and the pillows. Pillows were especially intimate on a bed, and Keith felt incredibly out of place, but friends did this all time—not that they were friends. It wasn’t _that_ weird.

“If I’d have known you’d be this easy….” Lance chuckled.

_Baby ste—_ That was it. No more.

“Can you knock it off?” Keith couldn’t hold back the bite in his voice.

“It’s a joke. Sheesh.” Lance pointed the remote at the screen and started the movie. “I didn’t think you’d pick it up.”

Fuck baby steps. He was taking full steps toward this confrontation.

“You like making gross jokes I don’t understand?”

“Lighten up.”

“No.” Keith ripped the remote from Lance’s possession and turned off the TV to Lance’s weak protest. “Promise you’ll stop.”

“Okay. I’ll stop. Happy?”

No, Keith was burning. “Move.” Keith crawled past Lance to the ladder. He climbed down and stuffed his feet into his shoes as he went to the table to grab his stuff.

“You’re leaving?”

Keith let the door slam behind him. He sent a text to Shiro: **Can we talk?**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyone interested in beta'ing an original fic i'm writing? it's young adult contemp w/ fantasy elements and a f/f romance. it has 20,000+ words so far. i'm thinking of having a google doc you can leave comments on. (or something.)


	7. half step

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to hawberries (@tumblr) for the lovely fanart: http://hawberries.tumblr.com/post/148394595217

“He’s just so—so frustrating. I’m trying to be civil. I thought I was doing good. Then he started making those jokes and I told him to stop and he stopped, but he wasn’t nice about it. Obviously I didn’t stay long enough to see if he really would stop, but I know he would have found ways to slip in more jokes. He likes it when I don’t understand anything, like it’s—like it’s a…a…a _kink_. It’s disgusting.”

Keith collapsed onto the desk chair Shiro had offered him several minutes ago, before he had launched into his anti-Lance rant.

“We should have a talk. The three of us,” Shiro said.

He was sitting on a cheap fold-out plastic chair that had been stashed in the back of his closet. He had insisted Keith stay on the desk chair because it was cleaner and had a cushion—lately purchased from a bargain market that sold everything from food to clothes. (“Hunk goes there every other weekend to find hidden gems,” Shiro had said when Keith asked about the new addition. “You could tag along anytime. I’m sure he won’t mind.”)

“He’ll listen to you,” Keith said, doubt in each word; Lance hadn’t listened at the restaurant. Why would he listen now?

The worst case scenario was that Keith had destroyed his chance at a friendship with Lance. He should have done something else than scream in Lance’s face. If he had been polite and requested in a soft voice for Lance to stop making sexual jokes, things may have proceeded differently, and Keith wouldn’t be sitting in Shiro’s room and complaining.

On another thought, Keith was in a good place: Shiro’s room. He mentally thanked Lance for being a douchebag that one time because Shiro’s room was calming. _Shiro_ was calming. Just being in the same room was calming.

Keith thought he could walk blindfolded anywhere and recognize when Shiro was near. All his negative emotions were repressed and all his positives were boosted.

“I don’t know about that.” Shiro chuckled.

Keith’s insides flipped at the sight of those dark eyes creasing into crescents.

“He’ll take you more seriously than me,” Keith said.

Shiro made a sound like he was about to disagree.

“You don’t think so?”

“I think Lance holds your opinion highly.”

“Then why’d he mock me?”

Shiro gave a soft shrug. “I think he’ll be more careful with his words the next time he sees you, even if I don’t moderate a talk between you two.”

Keith ducked his eyes to Shiro’s knees. “You think?”

“We can still talk, but I do think he’ll be more mindful. Tell him when he steps out of line. He’s a block of ice beginning to thaw out.”

“Block of ice?”

Shiro grimaced and looked down. “Not the best description?”

“No, it’s nice.” Keith moistened his lips, hyper-aware of the dryness he licked away. “What’s at the center of the block?”

“Honestly, I don’t think I’m there yet.”

Shiro stood and went to the refrigerator. Keith leaned out of his chair to peek inside and saw that the inside was redone: New fruit bags, new drink brands, and probably new bottles of Arrowhead water. Shiro seemed the type to drink multiple bottles of water a day. Though, he also seemed like an environmentally sensitive guy. Plastic bottles weren’t his…his…aesthetic. That was the word Lance had used to describe…. Keith blanked out. He didn’t remember. But he knew aesthetic was similar to a theme or a vibe or a—why did he care?

“Don’t think about the definitions too much,” Lance had said between teaching about lying cakes and rare pepes. “Focus on the context. That’s where you find the true meaning. Nowadays, it isn’t about literal definitions. It’s about emotions. What do you feel when someone calls you ‘smol’ as opposed to ‘small’? _That_ is the true meaning.”

Keith hadn’t understood what Lance meant, but he _felt_ it, and that meant he _did_ understand it. Meme comprehension was twisted, rooted in context, destroyed in definition.

“Water or chilled tea?” Shiro said.

Chilled tea. That was like the sipping tea reference Lance had taught. It might’ve been brewing tea. Or boiling tea. People didn’t boil tea. They boiled water and seeped the tea leaves and Keith really shouldn’t be obsessing over this.

Keith wanted to turn him down, but it was a waste of refrigerator air and Shiro’s energy. Fetching a chilled drink didn’t require much effort, especially from a martial artist, but Shiro’s consideration had its own energy. Every second of it was worth something.

“Water, please.”

Shiro tossed it over. “Something tells me you don’t drink anything else.”

“Sugary drinks make me sluggish.”

“I only stock sugar-free tea.”

“It’s not just sugar. I don’t like anything unhealthy.”

A strange look crossed Shiro’s face as he sat back down.

“I’m a little picky.” Keith liked water, milk, organic juice, and brewed tea. Anything else knocked Keith off balance, especially caffeinated coffee, which ramped up his anxiety to levels that had him quivering in bed, waiting for the crash.

Shiro smiled. It wavered.

“I’m not on a diet or anything. I’m healthy. My doctor says I’m fine.” Keith rolled his fingers in the hem of his t-shirt.

“I didn’t mean to imply anything.”

“No, it’s fine.” Keith’s throat closed up. He swallowed. It didn’t get much of the clogging down his throat. “I get how it sounds. I don’t feel guilty when I eat junky food. I just feel weak and sleepy.”

“I understand. I feel the same when I drink too much soda.” Shiro’s smile became stiff. Tired.

Keith hadn’t opened his bottle yet. He handed it to Shiro and pointed at the door. “I’m going to head back. Thanks for listening to me. I appreciate it.”

Shiro distractedly rolled the bottle between his hands. “Will I see you at the meeting tomorrow?”

“I have to. Lance and I are sparring.”

“All right. See you then.” Shiro’s smile wilted.

Keith offered a bright smile. He waved, wiggling his fingers, then opened the door and instinctively spread his arms as Lance practically spilled into them, as if he had been leaning against the door and eavesdropping like the nosey guy he was.

“Hey, hero.” Lance aimed a sultry look up at Keith—and was promptly dropped.

“Lance, what are you doing?” Shiro stood but didn’t move anywhere.

“I knew you’d come here.” Lance pushed onto his knees and jabbed a finger at Keith. “Running off to Daddy when you can’t deal with your problems.”

“Please stop calling me that,” Shiro said, but he bowed his head in accepted defeat.

Keith understood why: Lance was too proud to stop. He wouldn’t stop his gross jokes, wouldn’t stop calling Shiro Daddy—a word forever polluted in Keith’s mind—and wouldn’t stop being Lance.

Keith had no patience for Lance or his stupid games. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. He was stupid to think baby steps would get him anywhere near friendship with someone as stubborn as Lance. He couldn’t associate friendship with Lance. Not even acquaintanceship.

He stepped around Lance and swung open the door, almost clipping Lance’s heels.

Lance’s graceless spill into his arms had burned him. A wild flame lapped under his skin, scorching his everything, his body and thoughts, as he burned down the stairs to the sidewalk. He burned across the pedestrian walk, ignoring the “nice hair!” compliment a driver tossed at him.

“Keith!” Lance shouted, followed by the _slap-slap_ of shoes against asphalt.

The flame was a wild fire—spreading faster, growing hotter.

“Wait! Just give me a—”

There was a screech of tires. A car horn. A shriek.

Keith spun around, heartbeat spiking.

Lance was on the sidewalk, smiling too widely for someone who had crossed the street and almost gotten nailed to the street by a Porsche 911.

“I’m sorry!” Lance waved to the driver, who was a campus resident according to the red triangle decal on the corner of the windshield.

The driver floored it down the street in a display of passive aggression that Keith wished was pathetic, but the throaty purring of the engine and the shiny red paint of the coupe were too smooth to be anything but beautiful.

Lance wasn’t dead, so Keith turned and continued his march to Mane Hall. He felt no guilt. He was still burning. Fuming. He could dump a bucket of ice water over his head and his fire would evaporate everything, water and ice, in seconds. He’d even melt the bucket in his hands. All because Lance was a pervert who got kicks out of sick jokes and attacking people randomly and eavesdropping on conversations and flinging himself into arms and crossing the road without looking.

Insane. Lance was _insane_.

Just his name set Keith on fire.

“White people. I swear.” His voice was near. Keith could hear his feet. His breaths.

Keith spun, fist clenched, and punched Lance in the throat.

He felt the brush of warm skin against his knuckles, saw the startled flash in Lance’s big eyes—and then he was punching air, his fist redirected to the left as Lance parried with the outside of his forearm. They lowered their arms, tension zapping in the air between the two.

Lance held strong eye contact. “We can spar right now. No sparring gear. We don’t need it.” His voice was steady, low-pitched. The kind that built up to an explosion.

“Yes,” Keith said. “But we should move. We’re too open. Too public.”

“There’s grass and trees behind East Holt.”

They speed walked down the street, past W Holt, then E Holt, and they hurried around the building’s staircase to the lawn. California was in a drought and water restrictions were heavy, but the grass was thick and green and the only dirt patches were where trees grew. They toed off their shoes and socks and kicked them at the base of a tree. Their phones and keys and wallets followed. Lance checked something on his phone, then joined Keith at the center of the lawn, where the ground was most flat.

Lance brought up his fists to guard his face, his hands more outstretched than Keith would feel comfortable with.

Keith stepped into his stance, and because he was feeling too rooted to the ground, he bounced on his toes, as he did during full-contact sparring matches.

Grass crunched under their feet as they began a slow circling.

“I’m not going easy,” Lance said, and it wasn’t in that normal flirty tone of his that stirred heat under Keith’s flesh.

This wasn’t Lance the perv; this was Lance the fighter.

“I know. No protection means you’re going hard and messy.”

Lance’s concentration snapped like twigs. His hands lowered and his feet slowed. He fell out of beat. This was a “wut” moment, Keith thought with a smile.

Confusion clouded Lance’s eyes. “You’re—”

Keith launched at him, swinging his foot for Lance’s unprotected face.

Lance jerked back with a hissed curse, and Keith followed through with a wheel kick, spinning with the momentum of his first kick and swinging his heel for Lance’s head.

“Nope.” Lance dropped into a summersault and sprang to his feet.

Keith gave a dirty look. “The fuck was that?”

“Aesthetic.” Lance bounced on his toes, kicking his legs out like he wasn’t fully stretched.

Keith slipped in with a hook punch. Lance blocked, stretching his arm to immediately counter with a punch. Keith slipped his head to the side, almost out of reach, and backed away. His cheek throbbed; Lance had clipped his cheekbone.

“We should have a safeword.” Lance smirked, and Keith threw himself into a flurry of kicks and punches.

Lance blocked, parried, countered—and Keith pushed harder, throwing himself into every punch, hook, kick, and block.

Keith didn’t parry. Parrying took too much effort, too much time. It was easier to throw an outside block, using his forearm to nudge Lance’s punches an inch from his head, than to extend his arm and _push_ away the strikes.

They took short breaks, bursting out of their fight bubble to catch their breaths and check on the limbs that had taken hits. Each action took a physical toll on the user, even blocking. Keith could feel the bruises seeded into his arms from blocking Lance’s solid punches. The tops of his feet stung from Lance smacking them away.

Nobody had taken strikes to the chest or groin. It wasn’t a rule to avoid those spots, but it was universal kindness to avoid the groin, and their heads seemed to have gravitational pulls. Their hands, elbows, and feet liked high targets, especially those with eyes that could be poked, noses that could be broken, and lips that could be cracked.

They came together, burst apart, breathed.

Their sharp breaths thinned to gasps. They took longer breaks.

Keith’s feet were cut from the grass. He didn’t care. He had taken a hard fall when Lance hooked out his ankle. He had rolled to his feet, cutting his bare legs against the grass. That had been a moment when he was open to attack, his face unguarded, but Lance had stepped back and wiped the sweat from his face with his shirt.

They weren’t holding back. But at the same time, they were. It became clearer as they wore themselves down to sweaty, quivering bodies that they were pulling their punches.

Lance swung a hook for Keith’s head, but pulled back when Keith’s block didn’t hold. He slowed a barrage of punches so Keith could properly block them, and Keith stuck the chambers for his attacks to telegraph his next moves.

They weren’t sparring anymore. Their goal wasn’t to one up each other. They paced their techniques to flow and choreographed a fighting set on the spot.

Keith came with a hammerfist to the head, Lance blocked it with a cocked forearm, and Keith’s arm slid right off.

Then Keith twisted his body to press an elbow strike to Lance’s head, and Lance blocked with a triangle block, folding his arm against his head to cushion the blow.

Lance batted aside an uppercut punch to his chin. Keith cupped his hands and swung them toward Lance’s ears, but Lance’s forearms shot up and pushed them aside, opening both their chests to attacks.

Keith chambered his knee to his chest and waited for Lance to prepare a block or slid backward or do whatever his counter was.

Lance gave a smile that wasn’t like any Keith had seen before. It was physically the same as Lance’s other friendly-and-not-perverted smiles, but it was different.

“Go ahead,” Lance said.

Keith placed his foot against Lance’s chest and pushed. It was hardly a push, but Lance toppled onto his back, then swung his legs into a backward summersault and stayed crouched on the ground. He was a sweaty mess. His thin gray shirt was drenched and clung to his chest. His hair dripped sweat down his neck. All from sparring.

Lance swiped a hand under his chin and beamed at the slick sweat that rubbed off. “Awesome.”

He slowly rose to his feet, face pinched in pain as he hit a certain height. He kicked his legs out, then bent to press his hands flat against the ground in front of his toes, knees straight.

Keith sat on the grass, ignoring the itch under his skin triggered by his mild allergy to grass, and did a deep butterfly stretch, pushing his thighs to the ground.

“What was that?” Keith’s voice came out raspy.

“A bonding moment.” Lance crawled to the tree where their things were and pushed the button on his iPhone. “Over one hour of bonding without water. We’ll fix that next time.”

“Next time?”

“We can skip the bullshitting and go straight to the play fighting.” Lance wrinkled his nose. He looked around, mouth furrowed in distaste. “Something stinks.”

“It’s probably you.”

Keith stretched a leg out and leaned over it, pressing his nose to his knee and wrapping his hands around his foot.

He stretched his other leg, then looked up and got an eyeful of a shirtless and barefoot Lance only dressed in low-slung gym shorts. The hem hit that awkward place between mid-thigh and the top of his knees; it was too small or too large. But the waistband was a little loose and the gray band of Lance’s boxer shorts poked out in a naughty display. Definitely too big around the waist, too small below.

It was safer to look at the shorts because Lance did not deserve his sculpted upper body and Keith wouldn’t give him the gratification of knowing someone was jealous. Keith was like stale bread: Flat and hard.

Lance’s abs were on their way to becoming two columns of packaging air pillows. Keith wanted to poke each one with a needle and deflate it.

“I’m trying not to get too buff.” Lance rubbed a hand down his air pillows and made a whispery skin-against-skin sound that boiled Keith’s blood.

Lance rolled his shirt into a tight, wrinkled noodle of cotton, then twisted the halves in opposite direction, arms tensing as he tried to squeeze out sweat droplets.

“Water,” Keith said, not fully comprehending the word that popped out his mouth until Lance laughed and came close, holding the shirt out like he intended to drip sweat onto Keith’s face.

The shirt wasn’t soaked through, but Keith wasn’t taking chances. One stray drop could fall on his face or Lance could drape the filthy thing over his face and that meant his mouth would be touching Lance’s sweat.

He scrambled backwards onto his feet. “No.”

“Yes.”

“No.” Keith inched away, hands up for peace.

“Okay.” Lance unrolled his t-shirt and wrung it out into a wrinkled and twisted mass of fabric. He sighed at it. “I’m going shirtless.”

They collected their things, and Keith didn’t want to watch Lance shift his shorts so he could slide his phone, wallet, and keys comfortably into his pockets. But it was interesting because there was a method to filling pockets, and Lance had that easy motion that said he’d done this many times with other weirdly fitting shorts.

“You can take it off, too. Nobody cares.”

“I do.”

Keith kept his hands in his pockets and kept a clean foot between their bodies as they walked to Mane.

“Shiro told me about your...discontent with me,” Lance said, pin wheeling his shirt at his side. “I’ll tone it down, okay?”

“I want you to stop.”

The shirt dangled at Lance’s side. “Stop being me?”

There really weren’t baby steps with Lance; you either flung yourself into the fray or you did nothing at all.

“Stop being a dick.”

Lance wet his lips, then pressed them together.

“They’re not the same thing,” Keith said.

“I don’t need you to tell me that.” Lance slung his shirt around his neck and held onto the ends that draped over his chest. “I didn’t think I was being a dick. I was trying to be friendly. Your version of friendly is different and doesn’t involve sexual innuendos or fake flirting—inappropriate ways to befriend strangers, according to the gospel of our blessed martial arts father.”

Only one name matched that description.

“You mean Shiro?” Keith said.

“He’s been lecturing about proper manners ever since you started complaining to him about my ‘overbearing personality.’ Consider yourself adopted by a man two years your senior.”

They crossed a street that split the sophomore housing from the freshman housing, and Lance made a silly show of checking for oncoming cars.

“The rule is, if the car is a Porsche or higher, it’s okay to get hit. You can sue them and they’ll pay for your bills.”

“Then why didn’t—”

“I get hit by the Porsche? Because I calculated that she would stop before I got hit. Plus, I wanted to apologize.”

Lance jerked to a stop and clutched his throat, then sank to the sidewalk as though he were choking. He flapped a frail hand at Keith, who momentarily considered stepping on his throat. Keith didn’t think he was choking for a _second_.

“Apologizing,” Lance rasped. “It’s weakening me.” He clutched his throat and spasmed on the ground.

“Get up before someone thinks you’re dying.”

“Oh, but I am.” He shuddered. His hand grasped Keith’s ankle. “Apologizing is my Kryptonite. What…what will become of my manliness if I stop being a…a… _dick._ ”

Maybe it was the way Lance was grating on Keith’s nerves—again. Or maybe it was the fear of secondhand embarrassment of someone associating Keith with the writhing, half-naked body on the ground. But Keith wanted to do a quick defense and get Lance off the ground and dressed in a clean shirt.

Keith didn’t know a defense for someone grabbing his ankle (maybe a groin or face stomp?), and he didn’t want to hurt Lance—no, that was a lie. The tiniest voice in his head was nudging him in the direction of pain. Just a touch of it. Enough to encourage Lance to sober up.

He nudged his free foot toward Lance’s neck.

“Okay, I’m done.” Lance rocketed up, freeing Keith’s ankle.

“Do you like making a spectacle of yourself?”

“If it’s in my favor, absolutely.”

Lance nudged his shoe under his fallen t-shirt and kicked it up to Keith, who caught it without thinking. Two seconds later, after processing the damp fabric in his hand and Lance’s stupid smirk, he smacked it in Lance’s face.

“We should do that again,” Lance said, wiping the specks that had transferred from his shirt, which was now sweaty and covered in dirt grains, to his face.

“Free sparring?”

“When we went slow, like we were making sweet martial arts love.”

Keith’s skin prickled. Lance had said he wouldn’t do it, but here he was five minutes later being a dick. But…he didn’t seem to recognize that he had reversed his apology. The words had fallen out, unnoticed, not meant to offend.

“We should choreograph a fight set tomorrow during the meeting. You can do a butterfly and I’ll slide under you like in the movies. Then you can roundhouse my head, but I duck and I tackle you to the ground. Then we grapple and we can go on from there. Pidge can jump in and do a mass attack, or—” Lance jumped in front of Keith and grabbed his arms. “We can do a three-way fight! Each man for himself! Hunk and Shiro can join! And Allura! She does mad takedowns.”

Keith tensed under Lance’s soft hold. The burn was back, rolling in soft waves from Lance’s hands to the rest of Keith’s arms. He fought his fight-or-flight reflex and let his arms burn.

“What about Coran?” Keith said.

“He can be a prop or background guy. He’s too old for the team aesthetic.”

They continued their walk, and the burn in Keith’s arms dulled to a warm ghost of gentle hands covered in rough skin.

This was okay, Keith thought, as he and his (potential) acquaintance went to their dorm hall.

#

VOLTRON SQUAD

 **Shiro:** Club meeting tomorrow, 7-9 PM at BLMAA. Can I have a confirmation of who is attending?

 **Lance:** MEEEEEEE

 **Pidge:** Me

 **Hunk:** Me!

 **Keith:** Yeah.

 **Coran:** He speaks!! :)

 **Lance:** “Yeah” isn’t a proper answer, Keith.

 **Allura:** I’ll be there! Coran and I will make sure to be on time.

 **Lance:** That’s like saying “yeah” to someone asking about how you’re doing

 **Shiro:** Great! We’ve got full attendance.

 **Keith:** Coran’s answer wasn’t proper either. Why are you targeting me?

 **Lance:** Because he’s old. He’s not supposed to get these things. You on the other hand

 **Coran:** Old?

 **Keith:** I said “yeah, I’m attending.”

 **Lance:** You said only said “Yeah” and that’s completely different

 **Pidge:** Why are you doing this

 **Keith:** Who cares…?

 **Lance:** Uh…? I do…?

 **Allura:** Please stop.

 **Keith:** What happened to not being a dick?

 **Lance:** I’m not…? I’m being a friend and correcting you…?

 **Pidge:** Can you stop…?

 **Hunk:** Please…?

 **Coran:** …?

 **Allura:** Coran, don’t fuel it.

 **Keith:** Bye.

 **Hunk:** I’m calling for a moment of silence for the next hour.

 **Pidge:** An hour’s not a moment

 **Lance:** You gonna run to Daddy, Keith…?

 **Keith:** FUCK OFF.

 **Hunk:** Ooooh!

 **Lance:** Daddy, Keith told me to FUCK OFF. :’(

 **Keith:** You said you’d stop being a dick!

 **Shiro:** EVERYBODY KNOCK IT OFF. THIS WILL NOT BE TOLERATED.

 **Pidge:** (ah shit. dad mode activated)

 **Hunk:** (lance really did it this time)

 **Coran:** (are we whispering?)

 **Lance:** (((the more parentheses you use, the quieter your voice)))

 **Keith:** (How do I turn off the notifications? My phone keeps beeping.)

 **Lance:** (damn it keith. You don’t use capitals when you’re whispering)

 **Hunk:** (((((((i see a capital y)))))))

 **Allura:** Keith, open your settings app and open the GroupMe tab. Click on notifications. You’ll find a tab to disable them.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shout out to cowtape (@ tumblr) for filling my day with sunshine and bubbles, and helping me figure out some things for the plot. :)
> 
> and shout out to all the new readers! thanks for the comments and kudos and love. you all brighten my life.


	8. wheel kick

Coran voiced firm offense at Lance’s invitation to be a background extra in the open fighting set. His role, as Lance casually put it, was to be a middle-age San Francisco tourist strolling past two young and very dashing men about to throw down the gauntlet and _d-d-d-duel_. Gauntlet wasn’t figurative; Lance said he had two costume sets of Batman gauntlet gloves in his closet for him and Keith to wear during the opening scene.

Lance had a very specific vision for the set: cinematic and explosive. He wanted a script loaded with taunts and snippy dialogue to elicit laughter and stunned gasps from an audience. He wanted an improv segment where the audience could offer personal belongings as makeshift weapons. He wanted an audience member to become a damsel in distress for Lance to save, sweep into his arms, and maybe make out with in front of everyone.

“Somebody with long hair, preferably.” Lance whipped a roundhouse kick through the clapper paddle Keith held. The pad was split in half down the width, up to the handle, so it made a loud clap when struck properly.

All of Lance’s kicks had gone through striking area. He righted his stance, kicked again, and produced another flawless clap. “I can bury my hand in those silky tresses and scrunch them up for maximum aesthetic appeal.”

Keith had been paddle holding for most of Lance’s brainstorm. In the beginning, Lance had babbled while the team stretched in a circle, and nobody had really been listening except for Keith, who was obligated to listen because he was one of the leads in Lance’s overly stylized fantasy.

The others had gradually left to do their training: Shiro and Allura practiced wrist releases that Allura had picked up over the weekend while visiting a kung fu school; and Coran, Hunk, and Pidge teamed up for mass attacks.

Keith wanted to be with Shiro and Allura. They applied their attacks like they meant it, squeezing the wrist so tight that only a properly executed technique could override the grip.

Allura broke through all the releases. Her movements were sharp, confident. Shiro was a controlled explosion, and Keith wanted to be on the receiving end.

“Jealous?” Lance said, eyes cold.

“They’re having fun and I’m stuck listening to you.”

Lance rapidly blinked. His expression blanched into frozen shock and something that might have been delayed hurt— _fake_ hurt, and then he carved his hands through his hair and said, “Wow. You totally blindsided me.”

Keith dropped his gaze and darted a glance at Lance’s face. That weird expression was still there, so he slid his eyes over to Shiro. “We can’t do half of what you want. You can’t randomly make out with an audience member or use them as improv props. We can’t even have an audience.”

“Wrong.” Lance scoffed. “I have someone else in mind I can make out with, and it’d be a total plot twist. Nobody will see it coming. Not even you. And we can have an audience if we do demos. We can represent LU or Black Lion Academy, like a live action advertisement.”

Keith’s dojang had an award-winning demo team, called the Elite Kickers. Made up of ten students ranked from red to 2nd degree black belt, the Elite Kickers traveled across the country to compete in tournaments.

Non-team students could travel with and also compete, but they didn’t represent the team, only themselves and their dojang. The Elite Kickers had the added pressure of representing themselves as a separate entity; they were individuals, the dojang, _and_ the team.

Keith had rejected multiple invitations to the Elite Kickers and deflected any advances from instructors and classmates. Only his grandmaster never asked if he wanted to join, as if he knew Keith wasn’t comfortable with an intimate team dynamic; the Elite Kickers wasn’t a team, rather a family.

“We’d be a pretty good advertisement.” Lance spun into two consecutive wheel kicks, spinning so fast that he was a blur of his white clothes and dark skin. He adjusted Keith’s hold, using his foot to nudge it level with Keith’s head. “Five handsome guys, a dapper old man, and a beautiful young woman. It’s an aesthetic mix of young and old, male and female, though the six-to-one gender ratio is wonky.”

“Stop saying aesthetic.”

“But it’s so….”

“Stop.”

Lance did another wheel kick, tilting back his upper body so he could reach. He smacked the pad, landed in a low fighting stance, and said, “Aesthetic.”

Keith tossed the paddle over his shoulder and went to Shiro and Allura. Lance mumbled behind his back.

“Grab me,” Keith said, offering his wrist to Shiro.

Shiro did, and his grip was tight, secure, but it didn’t hurt. It wasn’t the grip a kidnapper would use when dragging a victim from safety.

“Do you want to learn a kung fu release?” Allura asked.

Her voice registered distantly in his mind. Shiro was watching him gently, as though to inquire about his hold. Too tight? Too loose? Too hot, sweaty, calming, relieving? Could he lessen the heat burning into Keith’s skin, stop it from licking down his arms and legs and toes and into the mats?

Keith opted for the release that maximized skin contact, and thus, increased the burn. He twisted his wrist free by twisting into the weakest part of the hold: Shiro’s thumb. It was a similar technique to what he had used against Lance’s collar grab.

He twisted Shiro’s wrist in the wrong direction, as he had with Lance, but he submitted the counter slower, smoother, drawing the pain out into a crawl.

Shiro didn’t tap out. He grabbed Keith’s upper arm and squeezed.

Keith loosened the wrist twist, but kept his hold on Shiro’s hand.

“May I counter?” Shiro asked.

Keith’s voice was stuck in his throat, along with his heart and stomach. He nodded. It was all he could do.

Faster than Keith’s mind could process, Shiro was out of his grip, behind him, and cradling his head in an unapplied triangle arm choke: Shiro’s right arm hugged the front of Keith’s neck, his right hand grabbed his left bicep, and his left hand cupped the top of Keith’s head. All he had to do now was flex and push Keith’s head forward, into his forearm.

“May I apply?”

Keith swallowed. “Yes.”

Shiro pressed his foot into the back of Keith’s knee, forcing it to buckle. As Keith slouched forward, Shiro lay his head on top of his hand covering Keith’s head, and pushed Keith farther into the choke.

Keith gasped, hand jerking upward to squeeze Shiro’s bicep. “Tap.”

Shiro dropped the choke, his hands slipping to hover over Keith’s arms, not quite touching, but close enough that when Keith shivered, their skin brushed.

“Was that okay?”

Shiro had moved forward and was speaking over Keith’s shoulder. Keith shifted back an inch. They were back-to-chest and Keith’s thoughts went straight to Shiro’s sturdiness and the safety it gave him. It was enough to make him fantasize of cuddling on a couch or bed: doubtlessly therapeutic experiences.

He thought Shiro relaxed against him, held him close.

Lance butted into Shiro’s protective bubble and tugged on Shiro’s arm.

“How about you let him go so he can get space?”

“I’m fine,” Keith said.

“He was holding you back.”

“And you aren’t?”

Lance weighed his hands in the air. “Do you see me holding anything?”

Keith slapped his palms against Lance’s hands. “Grab a clapper pad. It’s my turn to kick.”

“Sure. I’d love to.” Lance went.

Keith frowned at Shiro. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll keep him busy.” Allura double-hand grabbed Shiro’s wrist, smiling sweetly as Shiro turned an amused look on her.

Keith ignored the long look Hunk and Pidge gave him as he walked to the other side of the mat.

“Lance seems to retain some of Shiro’s parental tendencies,” Coran remarked, twisting the tip of his mustache.

“Retain?” Pidge said. He popped an eyebrow and sidestepped away from Coran. “That sounds messed up.”

Hunk shivered and rubbed his arms with his hands. “Ew. I don’t know what you’re referring to, but seriously. Ew.”

Coran peered down at Hunk. “Your generation has a disturbing tendency to tag sexual meanings to everything.”

“Oh my gosh, Coran.” Pidge slid his fingers through his frizzy hair to his ears and tugged on them. “You made it worse.”

“Stop.” Hunk covered his ears. “You’re putting pictures in my head.”

“Idiot. You’re doing the same.” Pidge shuddered.

“And here I am, trying to connect what I said to sexual implications.” Coran sighed.

Hunk dropped his hands. “Let’s do poomsae and forget this ever happened.”

“Yeah, I’m with you.” Pidge dropped into a horse stance and began a quick moving poomsae that was heavy with stances and blocks.

Lance cleared his throat. “Keith, can we focus here?”

Turning his attention to an impatient, clapper-pad wielding Lance, Keith realized he’d been watching the others and listening to their disturbing Shiro-Lance discussion. They hadn’t noticed his observation.

“Give me a 540.”

“I need to stretch.”

“You already did. Do it.”

“No.”

Keith nudged the pad higher, then clapped the pads with three wheel kicks. He exhaled, caught his balance, repeated.

Lance wiggled the pad. “How many can you do before falling?”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Do it.”

Keith swung countless wheel kicks until his brain juices sloshed like a whirlpool. He breathed a curse and toppled sideways, head spinning and hands and knees seeking the mat. Swearing some more, he tipped onto his back and stared at the ceiling while his brain ran laps in his skull.

Somewhere, Lance was laughing and Shiro was yelling. Allura was standing over him, a shadow silhouetted by the ceiling lights.

“I’m okay,” Keith said. His voice spiraled away.

Another silhouette stood opposite of Allura. It had a mop of unruly but probably silky hair.

“He freaking ascended.” Lance’s voice fell on Keith like rocks.

“Shut up.” Keith closed his eyes. The brain sloshing was better like this.

“Natural high?” Hunk said.

“I like how he fanned his hair out without even trying,” Pidge said.

“He’s a fallen angel.” Lance snorted. “Fallen emo angel. This was him when My Chemical Romance broke up.”

Someone exploded. Into laughter. But it sounded the same to Keith. He felt it, too. It had to be from Hunk; he was a volcano.

The mat next to Keith’s spread arm and thigh dipped. A comforting presence blanketed over him.

He opened his eyes. Shiro kneeled next to him, placing a hand on Keith’s forehead. He brushed Keith’s bangs away. That touch alone killed the sloshing into small waves.

“You should be more careful.”

Cured of the whirlpool, Keith pushed himself up to all fours. That had the waves cresting higher. He waited for his brains to settle, and they did once Shiro put a hand on his back and rubbed.

Better safe than sorry. Keith hung his head down as if battling another dizzy spell.

“Careful.” Shiro slipped his hand to Keith’s waist.

Keith could feel Lance’s discomfort vibrating the air, and as juvenile as it was, he liked stirring such emotion in Lance.

“Getting a little handsy, Dad.”

“Lance,” Shiro said, glaring at Lance, and perhaps unconsciously, his hand shifted and nudged the hem of Keith’s shirt. His skin touched Keith’s, and if that wasn’t the cream on the cake, then it was the expression Lance made when Keith looked up at him.

Lance was going to explode like Hunk had. Minus the laughter. Plus anger.

There was a word for this. Keith thought of the bristled way Lance held himself. The needle sharpness in his glare. The prickling of his presence.

Salty.

Lance was salty.

Keith shifted, and Shiro’s hand became firmer, providing more support than necessary, and Lance’s lips curled with restrained anger.

“I’m okay.” Keith sat on his knees. Shiro’s hand fell and trailed heat as it descended. “Go on and practice. I’ll catch my breath.”

Keith deflected “are you sure?” and “do you want water?” and “can I get you a chair?” and thanked Master Karen for fetching him a bottle of water upon exiting her office and seeing the team clustered around him.

“I knew something like this was going to happen.” Master Karen pointed from Keith to Lance. “You two are magnets for trouble. Push yourselves, but not so much that your risk of injury skyrockets. I’ve dealt with enough injuries to last a lifetime. Spinning in circles until you fall over sounds harmless, but it’s a gateway to stupider things. Like attempting 540s without proper warmups.”

That was directly pointed at Keith.

“That came before the spinning,” Lance said.

“It wasn’t in circles. It was a wheel kick chain,” Keith said, offended that she’d lump wheel kicks with circles, and that she knew about the kicks.

Anybody could spin in circles. Wheel kick chains required practice and precision. Keith had connected all his kicks to the target, keeping his balance even when his head started to brew a whirlpool.

“They’ll be more careful,” Allura said.

“Certainly,” said Coran. He stared down at Lance. “We wouldn’t want to be banned for carelessness.”

The team dispersed into their former groups and resumed their training. Shiro stayed back to make sure Keith could stand without wavering, keeping his hands near Keith’s waist for emergency support. Lance eyed those hands like he wanted to laser gun them to lumps of meat and bone.

“Somebody’s salty,” Keith said when Shiro left.

Lance snapped a curious look at him. “Hey, you’re picking up on the memes. Congrats.”

“It’s not that hard.”

“Oh, so you want to learn advanced memes now?” Lance whistled sharply, cutting like a knife through Keith’s head. “Hey, Pidge. I’m prompting the ‘dat boi’ meme. You ready?”

“Bring it!”

Lance swaggered toward Pidge with a strangely hypnotic swish of his hips.

“Here come dat boi!” Pidge hollered.

“Oh _shit._ Waddup?”

“I don’t understand,” Allura said, looking to Shiro for answers, but he shrugged and looked at Coran, who also shrugged.

Lance swaggered over to Keith, then summersaulted into a handstand and hand-walked the rest of the way over.

“Keith, you have to return it,” Hunk said. He and Pidge watched with wide eyes.

Shiro rubbed his temples as though he was getting a headache, and turned away.

“Uh….” Keith scratched his neck. “Wadd…up?”

“You’re so off.” Lance dropped his feet to the ground.

“Is the hip thing part of it? Or the handstand?” Keith was trying to understand. He really was.

“No.” Lance’s face hardened. “It’s a unicycle.”

Keith opened and closed his mouth.

“I don’t understand,” he said.

“That’s why it’s an advanced meme. The comprehension is more challenging. You’re not ready yet, but that’s okay. Everyone moves at their own pace. We’ll take it slow.” Lance raised his hand as though to take Keith’s arm in a supportive grip.

“Don’t.”

Lance curled his fingers into a fist and bumped Keith’s shoulder.

“You feeling up to starting that fighting set? We can keep it lowkey. No props or audience involvement. Just us doing what we did yesterday.”

“YESTERDAY?” Hunk boomed, his voice so strong that Pidge was startled into jumping back and throwing his hands to his ears. “I knew something happened. I totally knew something went down.”

Allura broke out of Shiro’s double-wrist grab, forgoing the counter. She glanced between Keith and Lance.

“Should I be concerned?” she said.

“They’re alive, so…no?” Pidge offered.

He and Hunk were the only ones continuing their training as Shiro and Allura and Coran assumed their respective roles of club president and club advisors, giving Lance and Keith strict looks that threatened consequences if they didn’t start talking.

“We did some light sparring outside of East Holt,” Keith said.

“Emphasis on ‘light,’” Lance said. “We didn’t hurt each other. It was mostly play.”

“Mostly,” Allura stated.

Lance looked at Keith for help, but Keith had nothing to add that might push them toward a good light.

Mind going numb as Lance tried to talk their way out, Keith stared at the worry lines creasing Shiro’s eyes as he listened to Lance’s bullshit excuse for “play fighting.”

Dad Mode, indeed.

Keith hadn’t met many young men who carried themselves the way Shiro did, with humble confidence and exceptional maturity, and it wasn’t Keith’s lack of social interaction that made him give Shiro the golden halo of role-model adulthood—it was the stability and support Shiro provided.

He relived the shock he’d felt when Shiro invited him to talk about his issues with Lance, when Shiro offered a seat and drinks, when Shiro recommended counseling services, when Shiro noticed that Keith had drifted into his memories, when Shiro asked for permission to counter the wrist lock, when Shiro made certain Keith wasn’t hurt from the triangle arm choke, when Shiro was the last to leave Keith after he went too far with the wheel kicks, when Shiro looked at him as he did now: smiling despite Lance’s insistent blabbering that it had been Keith’s idea to fight without sparring gear and Keith was the one to blame if anyone got punished.

The shock of being seen and cared for by someone outside his family and dojang—it was a pleasant feeling.

It was a reversal of pain.

It filled the holes in his gut left behind when his high school classmates didn’t know his name after six months (even though he didn’t know theirs either), when he tried to talk to his art class tablemate and was snubbed with small talk and poorly disguised eye rolls, when he realized he didn’t have any real friends during graduation night, when it suddenly hit him that he’d be two hours away from his dogs and his parents had banned him from visiting until Thanksgiving break—

He wouldn’t be home for weeks. He was stuck in Altea for weeks. He was on his own for weeks.

He’d go home during Thanksgiving break, adapt too quickly to family life, then be shipped back to Altea for another couple weeks of hell before winter break. He’d get comfortable—too comfortable—and then school would tear him away and he’d be stuck for another months until spring break. And the cycle would repeat through spring break and Easter break. (Which one came first? He couldn’t remember how many weeks there were between them. He should have remembered. He had gone over the undergrad schedule a few days ago and counted the weeks between each break.) Then there was summer and he’d be expected to intern at a big tech company or one of the smaller ones his father approved.

His father’s golden words about summer had been, “If you want a good start, you’ll have to intern in between semesters. Prove that you are serious about your career, but also serious about your academics.”

The words hadn’t sunk in completely.

They were hovering over his skin.

Someday they’d drown him.

“Keith.”

He stepped back, bumping into Lance’s chest. Lance held his arms, and he didn’t remember when Lance had gotten behind him—or when Shiro and Allura and Coran had stepped closer to him.

“You really drifted there,” Shiro said.

“Oh, did I? I was just…thinking of high school. I haven’t eaten lunch today either. I got distracted with homework.”

“Did you have breakfast?” Allura asked.

“Yes.”

He hadn’t been able to eat lunch, thanks to the nauseating pit in his stomach when he thought of tomorrow’s in-class Great Works essay exam.

“You can’t just skip lunch, dude. Not healthy,” Hunk said, coming to stand next to Coran. “There’s a thing called the Freshman Negative 15. You want to avoid that.”

Keith couldn’t move with Lance holding his arms, and the touch didn’t burn. This was progress, wasn’t it? Being comfortable with Lance restraining his movement so he couldn’t escape from the worried eyes watching him like he might keen over at any second.

“Let me go.”

“You’re not going to pass out?”

“Why would I?” Keith twisted out and walked to his shoes and belongings.

He hadn’t been about to pass out. He was fine. He’d drifted too far. Had felt a little unsteady about his recollections, but he wasn’t going to lose his balance to something as simple as trips down memory lane.

“You shouldn’t drive,” Lance said.

“I’m fine.”

“Dude, seriously.”

“I’m fine. What the hell?” Keith shot a glare at everyone but Shiro. “I zoned out. Big deal. Leave me alone.”

“You went all Blue Screen of Death. You can’t drive. I’ll take you back.” Lance hurriedly shoved his feet into his sandals and stashed his belongings in his pocket.

“What about my car?”

“I can drive it back,” Allura said. “Coran and I carpooled, so we aren’t short on drivers.”

“But you won’t be able to supervise the meeting.”

“We’ll be fine,” Shiro said, and looked at Hunk and Pidge, who both cheekily smiled.

“And Coran and I will come back,” Allura said. “It’s a short drive there and back.”

Keith unclipped his car key from his lanyard and handed it to her.

He kept his head and gaze down as he followed Lance out the back door. He didn’t look up; he knew Lance was checking over his shoulder.

“It’s clean,” Keith said as Lance opened the passenger door for him.

“Contrary to popular belief, my car is cleaner than my mouth.”

The interior was surprisingly empty of personal effects. Keith’s tissue box was tucked in the corner of the passenger seat’s foot well. He picked it up as Lance plopped onto the driver’s seat with a satisfied groan.

“My baby.” Lance rubbed his steering wheel.

Keith checked the tissue box for mashed-in corners and peeling cardboard. It was as sturdy and full as it had been since the restaurant incident.

“Your baby’s fine. I took good care of Bob.” Lance smiled.

Keith tossed the box to the backset.

Lance gasped. “You dare throw a child?”

Keith stared out the window. “Let’s go.”

The ride was quiet, and Lance didn’t zip through yellow lights or burn rubber when the lights flicked to green.

Coran and Allura drove behind them: Allura first in Keith’s Camry and Coran second in a Prius. Lance probably was driving safely to appease them, not because he cared about Keith’s supposedly poor health.

Everyone had been worried. Keith didn’t understand why. He hadn’t felt anything but the whooshing sensation of too many realizations hitting him at once. That coupled with his spinning episode must’ve given him a sickly appearance that the others had taken seriously.

They were too worrisome.

(It was nice.)

“Hey, Keith?” Lance said as he pulled onto the campus’s main road. “Can I ask something?”

“If it’s about what I think it is, no.”

Lance was silent until they entered Mane Hall’s parking lot. “If something happens and you need help, call Public Safety. But if you don’t want them, you can call me. I’m right below you. Or you can…you know…call Shiro, but he’s across campus, so…I’m here. To talk. Or help. Or you know.”

Keith waited until Lance parked. Allura and Coran pulled into the lot shortly after. Their headlights washed over the interior of the car, highlighting the openness of Lance’s soft expression.

He didn’t need help, but it was kindly offered and Lance was behaving for once.

“Okay.”

He checked on his car’s status. Allura was taking great care in parking it between two cars. Coran was backing the Prius into a spot several spaces down.

Lance smiled and held out a fist.

They bumped fists and splayed their hands into fireworks.

“Pow, pow, pow,” Lance said.

Keith laughed. “What was that?”

“Fireworks. What was that sound you made? A laugh?”

Keith scowled. It died in an instant; Lance was smiling, and it wasn’t a douchebag sort of smile. Keith had to return it.

“Never heard one?”

“Not from you, Mr. Emo.”

Keith flipped him off.

They went out to meet with Allura and Coran. Keith retrieved his car key.

“Don’t forget to eat tomorrow,” Allura said.

“Setting alarms for each meal might help,” Coran added.

They said their goodbyes and goodnights, then went their own ways.

Lance walked Keith to his room.

“Thanks for not being a dick,” Keith said.

Lance tipped an imaginary hat. “Of course, milady.”

“For most of the day.”

“Sorry, sir.” Lance stood ramrod straight and gave a soldier’s salute.

Lance was Lance. No changing that.

#

VOLTRON SQUAD

 **Lance:** Keith is home safe and sound. Mission accomplished.

 **Hunk:** Get better soon, Keith! We’re cheering you on! :)

 **Keith:** I’m not sick.

 **Hunk:** Sorry. That came out really strong.

 **Keith:** That’s okay. Thanks for the cheers.

 **Hunk:** Pidge honks his horn for you.

 **Hunk:** Because he’s driving. Wow, that’s weird out of context.

 **Lance:** It’s weird WITH context

 **Hunk:** Never mind. Sorry, Keith. He wasn’t honking for you. There was a raccoon on the road.

 **Hunk:** It didn’t move. It’s dead.

 **Hunk:** Update: It’s a skunk. That explains the stink.

 **Coran:** Rest in peace.

 **Hunk:** Pieces. Pidge ran over it.


	9. front kick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to fishfingersandscarves (tumblr) for the fanart: http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/148716700515/every-chapter-of-backhand-is-basically-lance

Keith Googled the definition of “friend” and “acquaintance” because he wasn’t quite sure what to call Lance.

He had actually Binged the definitions, but during his third Memeducation Private Session with Lance as his “credited Memaster,” he had learned that Bing wasn’t socially accepted. Apparently, admitting that it was his go-to browser was an instant cue to professionals (aka modern teenagers and young adults) that he was socially inept.

“Friend” was too intimate and “acquaintance” was too distant, but people called those they sort-of knew the former because the latter wasn’t casual enough, and it was offensive to call someone an acquaintance to their face. Even so, calling Lance a “friend” was too cozy.

Teammate, maybe. Clubmate, maybe. Semi-irritating downstairs neighbor, definitely.

His room was directly above Lance’s, so he heard—and sometimes felt—every time Lance threw his boxing gloves at the ceiling. The continuous thumps might have stopped if Keith hadn’t whined about it through text the first time it happened: **_STOP THUMPING AROUND._**

Lance had taken a moment to respond, the chat bubble appearing and disappearing at the corner of the phone screen, as if he had been flabbergasted to discover that Keith could feel every disturbance.

Something had thumped against Keith’s floor. And again. And again.

 **DID YOU FEEL THAT??** Lance had exploded into the chat.

**_STOP._ **

**SWEETHEART, NO. NOOOOOOO. IM GONNA FLIP AHAHAHAHA**

Lance had banged around until Keith visited him and saw the boxing gloves strewn on the floor ( _six_ of them, because Lance had a “thing” for gloves, as Keith later found out).

“I promise I won’t do it more than ten times a day,” Lance had said, holding his hands out so Keith could see he wasn’t crossing his fingers behind his back.

Nearly a week later, Lance was thumping Keith’s floor ten times daily, at ten PM, when Keith was getting ready for bed.

But today, Lance was doing it at 6:45 PM, when Keith was changing into his workout clothes and hurrying to make the club meeting on time.

His mistake had been dabbling into fanfiction of the horror manga he was reading, and discovering a story about a romantic pairing he had not considered before: Eren and Jean—two characters who always seemed to butt heads. He had read it, curious about what potential the author saw that resulted in 1k+ comments, and was hooked with the first paragraph.

He hadn’t realized he was late until Lance started the boxing-gloves commotion.

He hurried down the stairs and sprinted to his car, hair tied in a messy ponytail.

Lance came out of nowhere and leaned against the driver’s door of Keith’s car. “If you ride with me, I’ll get you there a minute early.”

Keith eyed Lance’s skimpy outfit: tiny gym shorts and a loose tank top that was covered in a copy-and-pasted images of a disgruntled cartoon frog. Next to his feet was an empty-looking woven drawstring bag that probably had more fabric than his shirt and shorts combined.

“What are you wearing?”

“Pepe #5.” Lance twirled.

The ugly thing was pasted all over him.

“It was the fifth Pepe option on the site.”

“Pepe the frog,” Keith deadpanned.

It was so ugly, it had to be the ugliest meme to exist. Something about the wrinkles coupled with the dark lips and the bulging eyes was absolutely hideous.

Keith thought back to when he had overheard two girls at his high school discussing the “science” of ugly friends being an important component to being attractive. They hadn’t been down talking others; they were referring to themselves.

Lance’s shirt was the ugly friend. No doubt he wore it to make himself more attractive by contrast.

“You remember? From last night’s Memeducation? You’re learning fast. You know what else is fast? My car. Hop in and we’ll be at the Academy before the clock strikes midnight.”

Keith would move Lance out of the way if he wasn’t showing that much skin. The less clothes a person wore, the less okay Keith was with physical contact.

Skin-to-skin contact was intense. He only liked it with certain people, like Shiro. He could stand that burn.

Lance hadn’t burned last week, when he had grabbed Keith’s arms to keep him steady, but Keith didn’t want to touch him, especially now when he was dropping into a low horse stance that definitely wasn’t part of the tae kwon do discipline.

His feet were on a line, facing forward and parallel to each other, but they were spread so far that his stance looked like a workout squat. He pushed out his knees until they sat over his ankles, spreading his thighs open and—

His crotch was _right there_.

The shorts weren’t making it any less awkward.

Keith forgot that he had hands to cover his eyes with.

Lance made a fist with his right hand, a knife hand with his left, and pressed his fist into his palm. He held the salute in front of his chest and said, “Please come with me.”

“Where’s that from?” Keith said and stared at Lance’s hands instead of the black fabric peaking from those too-short bottoms.

“It’s the universal kung fu bow and salute. Allura taught it to me.”

Keith was more impressed that Lance was holding that deep stance and not breaking into a sweat.

“This is a weapon.” Lance raised his fist, then his knife hand. “This is a sheath.”

He put the salute together. “This is peace. I’m asking for peace between us, and for you to please get into my car.”

If time wasn’t short, and if Keith wasn’t bothered by Lance’s naked thighs, he would’ve stalled until Lance fell out of his stance.

“You’re not a safe driver,” Keith said.

“I think you’ll find me very safe.”

He wouldn’t move anyway. It was better to give in than waste time.

“Fine.”

Lance swung his leg over to his bag and bent to grab it, his butt doing something that probably was a meme reference. Keith wasn’t going to ask.

“Let’s go,” Lance sang and drew his lanyard out of his bag.

He skipped to his car, helicoptering the lanyard at his side. If he let it go at that speed, the keys clipped to it could chip the paint off a car.

For every ten middle-tier cars, there was one upper-tier car. Lance was the person whose luck would have him chip the paint off a Porsche. There was one parked in the back corner of the lot, but again, Lance’s luck would have the keys cast across the lot and smashed through the Porsche’s windshield.

They made it out of the parking lot okay, and the roads were pretty clear for the first half of the drive. Lance didn’t speed more than ten miles above the limit. He stayed in his lane. There weren’t enough cars for Lance to cut in front of them. The craziest thing he did was run a red light. But that was on a left turn when there was no oncoming traffic. Keith yelled at him, and he smiled in content, as though the reaction was expected.

Time was thinning, and there was a cluster of cars on the Academy’s street.

“Road work?” Keith offered, squinting at the row of slow-moving red lights.

“Accident, maybe. Anyway, we’re not doing this.”

Lance cut in front of a BMW, putting them next to the yellow-lined center lane that was for turning left into parking lots.

Amazingly, nobody honked at them as Lance drove down the center lane all the way to the Academy.

Keith ducked into his seat. People were staring at them, confused and amused and bothered. He only poked his head up when he saw the fluffy head of a maltipoo sticking out the back seat of a sedan. His heart melted. The tiny white head and coin-shape eyes were too cute.

He missed his dogs. Pado and Danbee loved car rides—if the windows were down and they were allowed to lap up the breeze. Someone had to always hold them; his family feared that the wind would pluck them from the windows. Pado was a daredevil, and liked to hold his head out even on the freeway.

His parents had sent a couple photos every few days of the dogs doing routine things like eating, going on walks, getting petted by neighbors, and sleeping on their plush dog beds that were shaped like tiny sofas with removable seats. They were always willing to sleep in Keith’s bed, pressed against the inside of his bent knees or into the corner where his chest and pillow met.

If only he could have one night with them on his bunk.

“Think of this as the Red Carpet of lanes,” Lance said, expertly and stupidly maneuvering his car through the traffic and into their destination’s parking lot.

Keith was unprepared, having been stuck in Dog Land for the long minute Lance spent coasting down the center lane.

“Did you even signal?” he snapped, jolting upright.

Lance squeezed a fist next to his wheel. “When you help a friend but he fights.”

“What?”

“It’s called Arthur’s Fist. It’s normally accompanied by a picture of—oh, never mind. It probably shouldn’t be used in person. Detracts from its authenticity.” He paused thoughtfully. “Yeah. Don’t make the mistake I did. Keep it online.”

The car clock showed 6:57 PM when Lance parked in front of the Academy’s propped-open back door.

“With three minutes to spare,” he said.

He nudged open his door and paused to pop a smile over his shoulder at Keith.

“I’m not riding with you again.” Keith jerked his body out of the car, his joints popping after having been frozen in a death lock during Lance’s signal-less exit from the yellow-lane-slash-Red-Carpet.

“I was safe!” Lance locked his car.

Keith bowed into the Academy. Everyone was stretching in a large circle. He took the gap between Shiro and Pidge that wasn’t quite large enough for him to comfortably fit, but Pidge shifted over for him, and then Hunk shifted, and Allura shifted, and Coran shifted, and Lance took the spot between Coran and Shiro.

Nobody seemed shocked by the vastness of Lance’s naked skin.

That bothered Keith more than the sliver of skin that showed when Lance stretched his arms over his head.

“Did you carpool?” Pidge asked, unfolding his legs from the butterfly stretch he had been halfheartedly holding.

“Lance threatened me,” Keith informed, a bit baffled as to why nobody was batting an eye at the nearly naked body wearing a tank top that had a collar too wide for its owner; a shoulder strap was dangerously close to slipping off.

“No, I didn’t. I asked him politely.” Lance smiled self-righteously and slapped a hand over the strap as it slipped. He pulled it back up, making the collar pool in front of his chest, dipping low. (Keith really hated Pepe. Pepe was the worst meme ever created and he cursed the creator because it wasn’t right for Lance to dress like that. It _wasn’t right_.)

“I did the kung fu bow,” Lance added, poking his eyebrow up at Allura, like it was a secret message.

He stretched his left leg in front and bent the other over his thigh, placing his foot near his upper thigh. He pressed his right arm against the inside of his bent leg, twisting his upper torso and cracking his spine. Sympathetic groans rolled out of the team.

A shoulder strap fell.

Too much skin was showing.

Keith was going to pop a vein.

“Do you have any sense of decency?” Keith said.

The team looked at him like they didn’t understand.

“Oh, right,” Hunk said. “You’re not used to Lance dressing like this.”

“Moment of silence for Keith’s innocence,” Pidge said, speaking through a lengthy yawn.

“You okay, Pidge? You seem very tired.” Shiro leaned deeper into his hamstring stretch to look at Pidge.

“Mmh? Yeah. I’m tired.” Pidge yawned again.

He took off his glasses, which were more of the goggle-type that one of the students at Keith’s dojang wore.

“Almost pulled an all-nighter studying for a calc exam. I think I did okay.” Pidge lay on his back and rest the goggles on his stomach. “Oh, by the way, Matt’s in town for the weekend, and you’re all invited to my place Saturday night for a mediocre party.”

“I’m helping Pidge and Matt with the cooking!” Hunk gave a big smile and two thumbs up.

“Filipino food?” Lance said, voice pitched with hope.

“Banana lumpia,” Hunk sang.

“Let me love you.” Lance crawled to Hunk.

Keith could not find the words to describe the lurch in his stomach as Lance passed a few feet in front of him, tank top falling off a shoulder. Then Lance hugged Hunk, and Hunk’s giant arms wrapped around his back and squeezed like he was trying to pop out stuffing. Lance pushed Hunk over, and they toppled to the floor.

“Nom, nom, nom,” Lance said.

“Kiss, kiss, kiss,” Hunk said.

“Ugh,” Pidge groaned.

Allura and Coran smiled as they watched, and Shiro smiled too, though he kept his eyes to his knee as he reached for his toes.

It was just play.

But it shattered Keith’s patience bar. His tolerance leaked everywhere, burning his insides.

“Can you put a fucking shirt on? And real shorts too?”

Pidge sat up at Keith’s outburst, mildly irritated. “Dude, skin is skin. Chill out.”

It wasn’t. Not when Lance was cutting into Keith’s skin with…whatever he was doing. It was meme-related. Most likely. Something dumb that the Internet caught onto because it strongly affected people. Except the rest of the team was unaffected, and Hunk looked confused as to why Keith had blown up, and Lance looked to be considering crafty thoughts that couldn’t be good for Keith.

Lance sat back and didn’t fix his tank or his hair, which Hunk had tugged on in during their fake make out.

Keith wanted Lance’s thighs and arms covered. And he wanted that finger-tugged hair fixed.

Shiro and Allura and Coran were silent, and Keith wished one of them would take over.

“What’s going on?” Master Karen said, standing halfway out of her office. She sighed. Her body drooped and she sank against the doorframe. “Mr. Sanchez, I’ll give you a free Black Lion t-shirt if you throw that in the trash.”

Lance gasped and clutched at his ill-fitting tank. “You don’t like it?”

“My kid is ten. She’s obsessed with memes. You have to understand my hatred.”

“Hatred.” Lance turned away and held up a frail hand to ward her off. “Stay away.”

“The offer stands.” She disappeared into her office.

Keith snarled. “If I hadn’t carpooled with you—”

“You’d leave?” Pidge said. “With your tail between your legs, like you always do? It was funny at first, but now it’s getting in the way of the team dynamic and you’re kind of annoying. Just putting that out there.”

Allura blanched. “Pidge…." 

Keith bit his tongue and stared at a crack between the mats. He had visited a few dojangs and dojos throughout his life, and his favorite mats were the puzzle-pieced ones. Some mats were a single sheet of thick fabric placed over cushion.

 Pidge rubbed a finger down the inner corner of his eye. He yawned. “Sorry. I’m tired. Zero patience right now.”

“I have a sleeping bag and pillow in my trunk if you want to nap,” Coran said.

“Thanks.”

Coran fetched a rolled-up sleeping bag and plastic-wrapped pillow and prepped them at the back corner of the mat, against the mirrored wall. Allura turned off two rows of lights, casting a fourth of the Academy into a soft darkness.

“Reality feels warped,” Lance said, gazing around the Academy.

Master Karen came out to see why she “sensed a disturbance in the Force.” She saw Pidge snoozing on the sleeping bag, then jogged across the mats to the back hall, where she got a roll of white memory foam for Pidge to slide under the sleeping bag.

“It’s weird,” Hunk said. “It feels like it’s midnight. I should be going to sleep.”

“Go in the light,” Lance said, and the two went to the brighter side of the floor.

“Do you always have a sleeping bag on you?” Shiro asked Coran. They walked toward the lights, Keith and Allura behind them.

“I also have a First Aid kit, flares, top-of-the-line flashlights—the tactical ones that law enforcement and hunters use, extra clothes, and water pouches.”

Shiro responded, but Keith didn’t listen because he felt the buzzing tingle of Allura’s eyes on his face. He knew she was thinking about Pidge’s outburst. It had been more of a half-awake mumble. A biting reminder that he didn’t care enough about Keith to raise his voice—to consider his feelings—to politely pull him aside and say that the game he played with Lance was getting irritating—to apologize to him, not Allura.

He wasn’t friends with Pidge. Didn’t know him well. There was more to the rich white boy who shared an apartment with Hunk, acted out memes with Lance, and drove over dead skunks. Who did butterfly kicks with startling ease. Who was tiny, but had a powerful voice. Who thought Keith was annoying and wasn’t afraid to voice his thoughts.

There was more to Hunk, to Allura, to Coran, to Shiro, to Lance—

Lance, who called himself a Memaster, a professional in meme culture. Who hit on the wrong girl and took shelter in Keith’s room. (His associate had been Hunk, hadn’t he?) Who held Keith’s shoe hostage over a stupid dinner. Who named Keith’s tissue box Bob and kept it in his car, unused and unharmed. (Keith had been glad to see it unmarked, unused, and cared for. “You dare throw a child?” Lance had shouted.)

Lance, who wore ridiculous clothes and—was currently half-naked because he’d taken off his tank, but Keith wasn’t paying any attention to that because he wasn’t annoying, wasn’t running away with his tail sheltered between his legs, wasn’t falling for Pidge’s words.

Lance, who didn’t burn like Shiro.

He didn’t really know any of them.

“Stop staring at me,” Lance said, and Keith refocused, finding himself gazing in Lance’s direction.

“Why are you so brown?”

His arms, legs, torso—

Dark. Brown. Warm underneath. Glowing like Lance’s ever-inflated ego.

Hunk shook his head slowly. “Keith, man. You can’t just ask someone why they’re brown.”

He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. It was a thought.

“I forgot to eat lunch. My brain’s not fueled.”

That had been a thought, too.

He hadn’t eaten lunch, hadn’t been able to work up the appetite to put food down his throat. The leftover chicken salad was in his fridge. It would likely stay there for the rest of the night, and tomorrow morning. He might try to eat it for breakfast. Might find it soggy. Might throw it away and force himself to eat oatmeal, as he had that morning.

“Again?” Hunk said, disappointment everywhere: his face, his voice, his posture.

“I’ll eat dinner,” Keith told the floor.

The floor listened without judgment. Everyone else was silent, and Shiro and Coran had stopped walking, and Keith wondered what Pidge would say.

Allura steered him by the shoulders through the front doors. The others stayed inside.

It was chilly outside. The cars were still moving slowly. Sirens cut through the night. Lance was right: it had been an accident.

“I’m fine,” Keith said, hugging his arms to his chest.

“What did you eat yesterday?”

Oatmeal in the morning, spaghetti with tomato sauce in the afternoon, and…he couldn’t remember his last meal.

“I eat most days,” he said. “At least once a week I’ll forget a meal.” Or he’ll feel sick and unable to consume anything but water and Gatorade. Or he’ll feel like his stomach is trying to grow arms and crawl up his throat, out his mouth, and fall into the trashcan.

“You forgot lunch last Wednesday.”

“Yeah, I did.”

Allura didn’t look at him. Her eyes stayed on the congested road. A police car zooms down the center lane, sirens flashing blue, red, and white onto the frozen cars.

“I can still function, and it’s not like I’m the only one doing it. A bunch of my classmates talk about how they didn’t have time to eat, and it’s not all the time.”

“They’re still hungry when they skip,” she said, blunt, like this wasn’t new territory for her.

“I never said I wasn’t hungry.”

The answering silence wasn’t uncomfortable, though it was cold and empty.

“If you didn’t have time to eat, but you had the opportunity to do so while you worked, would you be able to eat?”

Usually, no.

“Depends. If I forget to eat, I don’t get hungry. If I’m busy, I get hungry.”

The conversation ended after that. They stood in their quiet bubble, watching the slow progression of traffic. A few cars made hasty, dangerous U-turns to get out of the bumper-to-bumper jam.

Lance’s kiyaps, low and firm, drifted through the door as Coran cautiously pushed it open to ask if they were fine.

“We’re good.” Keith went inside, pasting a warm smile on his face for Coran.

The best way to kill the concerned looks thrown his way was to act as he said he was: fine.

“Lance, let’s start the fighting set.” Keith gestured for Lance—still half-naked and showing off his dark thighs—to step away from Hunk, who was bear-hugging him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides.

It looked awkward with Lance so undressed.

Hunk dropped the hug and frowned. “You sure you’re okay with that?”

“When I say I’m fine, I mean it.”

“Doesn’t sound it,” Master Karen said.

Keith was starting to think she enjoyed popping herself into conversations.

Shiro and Coran, who were somberly conversing near the mirrors, looked over.

“I’m fine,” Keith said, trying not to spit venom into his words.

He should have force-fed himself. His empty stomach was messing with his brain. He wanted to punch everyone in the face, Shiro and the sleeping Pidge included.

He walked past Lance and Hunk, needing distance from their worried looks.

“When a boy says he’s fine, what he really means is he’s not,” Lance said.

Keith could feel Lance’s presence behind him. It didn’t get closer; Lance wasn’t following.

“I’m fine,” Keith ground out. He stopped, collected his breath, then faced Lance. “Can we go back to normal? Please? It’s only the third meeting.”

“Sure, but…I don’t want to go against you when you’re like this,” Lance said.

“Scared I’ll hurt you?”

“Eh. No, not really.” Lance quirked his lips into a half frown. “Call me cheesy but I’m more scared for you. I could take you back—”

“I’m taking a break. Outside.” Keith turned away.

He wasn’t the damsel to Lance’s white knight act. He wasn’t further ruining the club dynamic.

#

Sitting on the curb in front of the empty parking spot next to Lance’s blue sedan, Keith thought over Pidge’s words.

Annoying.

Tail between his legs.

Used to be funny.

Keith wasn’t a funny person. He was a wallflower. He was a socially awkward boy who missed his parents and dogs too much to be a normal college kid.

Maybe he was wrong, and it was normal to struggle with eating for the first month in a dorm. It was normal to be anxious about nothing in particular. It was normal to take an hour to fall asleep, to dream about leaving Altea, to be angry when he woke and found himself alone in a dorm two hours from home.

“Mind if I sit here?” Shiro’s voice came from behind. Keith imagined he was barely standing outside the back door, waiting for permission to come forth.

Keith had been outside for a while. He liked to think Shiro had been watching over him for just as long.

“I’d prefer it.”

Shiro sat close. A few minutes passed. Neither spoke.

“I’m sorry,” Keith said. “I’ll be better next week. Today was…. It wasn’t rough. I don’t know why I feel like this. We’re almost a third through the semester and I’m still…. I think my routine needs a change.”

Less staying in his room. Less eating by himself. Less avoiding people.

“I don’t want to be lonely anymore.”

Shiro touched Keith’s arm. “Would you like to hang out?”

“Please.”

“I’m free tomorrow after one.” Shiro’s voice was as gentle as the hand he kept on Keith.

Keith touched Shiro’s hand. “Me too.”

“I’ll call you after my class gets out.”

They lowered their hands to the sidewalk at the same time, Keith’s remaining on top of Shiro’s.

Keith slipped his hand underneath.

“Are you cold?” Shiro asked.

Keith heard another question underneath, hidden within a coy smile.

He had never been attracted to someone before. Not the way he was with Shiro. He knew he preferred men over women, and found them more pleasing to look at. But he had never been able to imagine himself _with_ them.

It was different with Shiro.

He could imagine that hand traveling under his clothes, between his legs.

He didn’t feel it in his stomach like he did at night, curled on top of his blankets and sweating his face into his pillow.

Maybe with time, that would change.

“Hey, guys,” Pidge said, taking a seat next to Keith’s other side. “I’m here to interrupt your platonic bonding moment. Not on behalf of Lance. Can you give us a moment, Shiro?”

Shiro left, taking all the warmth with him.

“I don’t think you’re annoying. You’re very mildly irritating. Very, very, very, mildly. Compared to Lance, you’re a wet dream.” Pidge wrinkled his face in disgust. “Ew. I take that back. This is why you need at least eight hours of sleep. Anyway.”

He leaned back on his hands, and looked at the sky. He wasn’t wearing his glass or goggles. Seeing him without them was like seeing into him. Keith was always uncomfortable when seeing glass-wearers with naked eyes.

“This club is my escape from the garbage life throws at me. It’s not going to be the same in a few weeks because of the Involvement Fair. New members will join and.... Yeah. I want to enjoy this as much as possible until then. That’s why I’m being a dick. You can fuck around after the new people come, but for now…can you chill? Please?”

Keith could only focus on four words.

Involvement fair. New members.

“I forgot about that,” Keith said.

New members meant obstacles to the original team. Keith would have to compete against others for attention. He’d melt into the background. He’d be forgotten.

Pidge played with a frizzy cluster of hair. “I’ve been trying to forget about it but…. It’s hard when you really care about dynamics. I can’t…be me around everyone. That’s why I was allowed to live off campus for my freshman year. I like LU. It’s a great campus with great professors and great students, but communal living is a different story.”

Keith didn’t know what to answer with aside from polite silence.

Pidge yawned long and hard, then stretched his arms in a wide V above his head, almost knocking a hand into Keith’s face.

“I should probably tell you this now, while he’s gone.” Pidge checked the back door, then sat closer to Keith and dropped his voice to a murmur. “Shiro is very tactile, and I think he thinks you’re the same way. When he does that hand holding and cuddling, it’s not necessarily romantic or sexual.”

“He hasn’t cuddled me,” Keith muttered.

“He might offer if he thinks it’ll make you feel better. He’s like a dad. A really touchy dad. Not bad touchy. Just…touchy. Lance is more of the bad touchy.”

Keith pulled a chuckle out his mouth. It was a dry “hah. Hah. Hah.”

“He’ll stop, though. I talked to him. Texted him, actually. Don’t tell him I told you, but he admitted that he knows it’s wrong to keep pushing you. He said he can’t help it because you’re—uh, insert inappropriate phrase here.”

“Sounds like something a douchebag would say.”

“Exactly.” Pidge laughed, then sobered up rather quickly. “He needs to get smacked.”

“Maybe next week.”

“Definitely next week. Do the world a favor and smack common sense into him. He probably thinks dressing like that is going to get him laid. L-O-L, right?” Pidge groaned and massaged his temples. “Did I seriously just spell out text lingo?”

“Maybe some sleep will help.”

Pidge wearily got to his feet. “I’ll do that. See you later. You’re coming to the party, right?”

“Sure.” His weekends were always free, and it’d be nice to meet Pidge’s brother; he seemed like a nice guy.

“Any food allergies?”

“Nope.”

Pidge patted Keith’s head and went inside, then came out with Hunk as a chorus of goodbyes followed them.

“See ya, Keith!” Hunk bumped fists with him and did the complete setup with finger twiddling and crackling fireworks.

Keith followed the bright lights of Pidge’s BMW, which Hunk drove because Pidge was slouched against the door and sleeping, until it vanished around the corner and into the main parking lot.

Then he was alone with his thoughts for a slow stretch of time. He thought of the things he and Shiro could do tomorrow. Maybe they could eat together at the cafeteria or take a hike down one of Altea’s scenic trails.

There was a famous dog park several miles from downtown Altea that was known for bringing together dog lovers from Galra, Altea, and the surrounding cities. They could get their dog fix, and Keith’s heart thrummed with desire to see how Shiro interacted with dogs.

Did he squat to the dogs’ eyelevel when he petted them? Did he speak to them in a sweetened or honey-deep voice? Did scratch their ears while he complimented their fur or eyes or teeth?

Keith’s heart swelled at the thought of Shiro holding Pado and Danbee, one cradled in each arm. His mother would instantly fall in love with him. She’d say that if Keith were a girl, he’d better marry Shiro and have a handful of babies.

“Is there room for me?” Lance said softly, taking a seat next to Keith.

He was wearing a t-shirt, finally. Keith’s mind was still fixated on his fantasy of Shiro playing with Pado and Danbee (they were playing fetch and Shiro was making cooing sounds and Keith’s heart was going to explode), so maybe that was why he felt bad that Lance had covered up.

“Can you stop provoking me?” Keith said, looking dead straight ahead; he didn’t want to see whatever Lance’s reaction would be.

“Explain.” Lance wasn’t smiling.

“You know what you did.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yeah, you do.”

Lance chuckled. In Keith’s peripheral vision, he sadly shook his head. “There’s an hour left in the meeting. Come back inside. You look freezing.”

Keith couldn’t argue against that; his arms were wrapped around his knees, and he was fighting against the shivers.

They went inside. Lance pointed at the sleeping bag. “It’s open if you want it.”

Keith wanted it. He wasn’t in the mood to train or look at Lance or Shiro.

(Shiro’s touching wasn’t romantic? Pidge wasn’t Keith or Shiro. He couldn’t know anything about their connection.)

Keith felt the remaining members of the team watch him as he sank onto the sleeping bag. He flipped the pillow over then fluffed it before dropping his head on top. The wall mirrors didn’t completely reach the floor, and that allowed Keith the privacy of staring at a thick strip of wall that nobody could see his face reflected in.

“You’re sleeping?” Lance said, amusement shining clearer through his words than the leftover anger that had been building when they were outside the Academy.

“I’d rather sleep than deal with you,” Keith said.

He folded his arms under the pillow and closed his eyes.

He didn’t expect to fall asleep with his heart pounding as it did, but he did. And when he woke, he was facing the ceiling and someone was hovering over him, brushing hair from his face. Fingers brushed his lips. He scrunched his mouth away from the feathery touch.

“Hey, it’s time to go,” Lance said.

Keith grumbled and turned his face into the pillow.

“All right! I’m done waiting,” Master Karen said. “I’ve got to lock up.”

The sleeping bag ripped out from underneath Keith. He rolled off, smacking onto the mats. He groaned.

“Come on, buddy.” Lance pulled Keith to his feet.

In his half-asleep stupor, Keith couldn’t find a reason to care that Lance had an arm around him and was “helping” him to the car.

“Where’s Shiro?” Keith said.

“Gone.”

A void opened in Keith’s stomach. Shiro had left him...and with Lance. It didn’t sound right.

“Such a lovely display of teamwork,” Coran said. He and Allura rolled up the sleeping bag with pillow at its center. “We should do trust falls next week.”

“Only if Shiro catches me,” Keith said.

Lance’s arm tightened around his waist.

“I can walk fine,” Keith said through a yawn and peeled off Lance’s hand.

Keith got his slippers on fine. He collected his belongings fine. He got in the car fine. He was fine.

“Get some rest,” Allura said, smiling at Keith through his open window.

“You too. Drive safe.” Keith rolled up his window. He waved at Coran, then Master Karen.

He was about to ask how long he’d slept when he registered the car’s clock: 10:32 PM.

“We went over time by an hour and a half?” Keith said.

Lance pulled out of the parking spot. “You fell asleep fast. Coran thought that meant you hadn’t gotten enough sleep last night. We were going to let you wake up on your own time, but Master Karen had to go.”

“Crap. What’d you do for that long?”

“Allura and Coran shittalked some professors and gave me and Shiro a list of the ones to avoid. I’ll paste a copy to GroupMe for everyone to share.”

“For an hour and a half?” Keith tipped his head against the window and closed his eyes.

“Professors have a lot to say about each other.”

That was the last Keith remembered hearing. The next was Lance telling him to stop drooling. They were parked in the lot, and Lance insisted on escorting Keith to his room.

“Here we are again. One week later,” Lance said, standing outside Keith’s door.

“Hopefully not next week,” Keith said.

Lance smiled, but it was too crooked to be genuine.

“Want to grab lunch tomorrow?” Lance asked.

“I might have plans with Shiro. Sorry.” Keith started to close the door.

“How about dinner?”

“Uh, maybe. I still might be with Shiro.”

Lance dropped his smile into a scowl. “What the hell are you planning on doing that lasts that long?”

“Don’t know. Good night.”

Keith closed the door on Lance’s scowl as it began its smooth morph into a pout.

#

VOLTRON SQUAD

 **Shiro:** We need to prep for the Involvement Fair next Thursday. We’ll need a poster board, sign-up sheet, and booth decorations. Allura and Coran have done us a major favor and designed the informational pamphlet. What times are you all free to meet?

 **Lance:** Does anybody else suddenly feel very stressed out?

 **Lance:** Hello?

 **Lance:** Looks like it’s just me.

 **Pidge:** Dude, you sent that at 2 AM. Nobody was awake

 **Lance:** You all are babies

 **Coran:** We’re adults who recognize that sleep is an important factor in our health and daily functionion.

 **Lance:** Functionion

 **Hunk:** Functionion

 **Pidge:** Functionion

 **Keith:** What meme is this?

 **Lance:** shud up mulletboi

 **Pidge:** shud up mulletboi

 **Hunk:** (not participating because that’s mean)

 **Shiro:** WHAT TIMES ARE YOU ALL FREE TO MEET?

 **Lance:** STOP YELLING AT ME, DAD. I’M UNDER A LOT OF PRESSURE RIGHT NOW AND I NEED YOU TO JUST GIVE ME SPACE. OKAY?

 **Keith:** I’m free after noon every day.

 **Hunk:** After 3 PM every day is good for me.

 **Pidge:** Same as Hunk

 **Allura:** Coran and I will work around your schedules. :)

 **Lance:** Noon or later for me. Thanks, Daddy! <3 Love you lots

 **Shiro:** Thanks!

 **Lance:** No problem at all, Daddy. ;)

 **Shiro:** Cease this inappropriate behavior immediately.

 **Lance:** Sorry, Daddy.

 **Lance:** OH MY GOSH. SHIRO’S AT MY DOOR LOLOLOLOL

 **Lance:** HE CAME ALL THE WAY HERE

 **Lance:** HE’S DEMANDING I LET HIM IN AHAHAHAHAHAHA

 **Lance:** DADDY DON’T SPANK ME

 **Pidge:** OMG LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOL

 **Lance:** I’M SCREAMING AHAHAHAHA

 **Keith:** I can hear.

 **Lance:** THE RA THREATENED TO WRITE ME UP. DOOR’S STAYING SHUT THO

 **Hunk:** #letshiroin2k16

 **Pidge:** #wastehistime2k16

 **Keith:** #stop

 **Lance:** Woah

 **Lance:** That was powerful. It was like you were screaming it at me

 **Keith:** #openthedoor

 **Lance:** Idk how, but you’re compelling me. Okay. Door’s opening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is more self-indulgent than not b/c my week has been pretty crappy.
> 
> reminder: klance is endgame
> 
> shoutout to cowtape (tumblr) for being my memaster.


	10. leg sweep

Keith had thought Shiro’s invitation to hang out was restricted to Altea. They’d have lunch in the cafeteria, walk around campus, then drive somewhere that wasn’t more than ten minutes from campus, like downtown Altea or Galra, and do more walking and talking.

The typical college student had plenty of places and events to attend in the Altea Bubble during the weekdays. And when factoring in time for classes, homework and studying, and eating, there wasn’t time to do something significant beyond the city border.

But Shiro wanted to take him to a Thai bistro in downtown Mura, Galra’s neighboring city, opposite of Altea. It was normally a twenty-minute drive, according to Google Maps, but today’s suggested route had a detour and was five minutes longer because of a major accident that closed down the bistro’s main road.

He hadn’t given his response to Shiro’s polite inquiry, distracted by Lance sending a bunch of texts asking about the plans.

Each text didn’t stand on its own; it was a caterpillar of individual messages spelling out a sentence:

**SOOOOOOOOOO**

**How**

**Goes**

**Your**

**Super**

**Awesome**

**Plans**

**With**

**Shiro**

**?**

Responding was a mistake. Lance took Keith’s **_We haven’t decided yet_** as an opening to suggest other plans that involved the two of them going places—“them” being Keith and Lance.

It started innocently enough, with Lance texting, **If it doesn’t fall through, maybe we can do something.**

Keith was pretty sure Lance had incorrectly used “doesn’t fall through.” Though, with further thought, it sounded correct. Falling implied an effortless descent without any obstacles; if the plan fell, it wasn’t disturbed or delayed.

He pondered this as Lance spammed their chat. The suggestions weren’t confident enough to come off as actual things that would happen, so he gave them little thought.

Some suggestions were Netflix and chilling “without the chilling,” hiking on the trails that curved inside Altea’s lush woods, watching an animation film at Altea’s AMC theater, crashing a Black Lion Academy class, dressing fancy and eating dinner at a high class restaurant, streaking in the park, skinny-dipping in the dark, and hitting the boulevard.

He sent Shiro a text: **_Sounds amazing. I’d love to go._**

A notification about Lance’s next suggestion (going on thrift shop marathon) descended from the top of his screen. Keith pushed it up. Shiro was typing his response, and Keith loved how that little speech bubble had popped up so quickly, as though Shiro had been waiting on the chat the whole time.

**Are you ready to go? I can pick you up now.**

Keith had been ready since he’d gotten out of class. It was one o’clock, he had little homework (a ten-page reading for Astronomy and a 500-word reflection for Bible Study), and he was ready to splurge the rest of his day on Shiro.

**_Sure!_ **

**I’ll call when I’m in your lot. Expect me in ten minutes.**

Keith clicked on the next notification from Lance, opening their chat. He sent, **_We’ve decided. Bye._**

He checked his appearance in the vanity mirror. His hair was crazy. His smile was crazy. He splashed water on his face. Combed his hair. Flossed his teeth. Covered his lips in a thin layer of cherry-scented lip balm.

His phone rang. He checked the caller ID. Lance. He hit the red ignore button.

Lance called again.

He knew calls couldn’t override each other, but he wanted his phone quiet and free when Shiro called.

“Can’t you text?” Keith said, slipping his wallet into his pocket.

“Yeah, but I like calling better.”

“You love hearing your voice?” Keith rolled his lanyard around his keys and pushed the wad of woven fabric and metal into his other pocket.

“Where are you going?”

Keith shoved his feet into his shoes. He debated tearing through his closet and finding another outfit to replace his bland t-shirt and shorts.

“What do you care?”

“Just wondering if there’ll be time afterward…for us.”

“Us?”

Keith put Lance on speaker and set his phone on the vanity counter. He reviewed his face in the mirror.

“I feel bad about yesterday. I wanna make it up to you,” Lance said. His final words tripped over a small hesitation.

“Explain.”

Lance answered with silence.

Keith’s phone buzzed with an incoming call from Shiro.

“I have to go.” He reached to hang up.

“Where?”

“Some Thai place.”

Keith replaced Lance’s call with Shiro’s. “Hello?”

“I’m parked in the left wing of the first row.”

Keith flew down the hall and down the stairs, feet barely touching the ground. He turned the corner of the last landing and bumped into somebody. He stepped back—not high enough. His heel clipped the stair and he compensated (rather stupidly) by grabbing the body’s t-shirt.

The body grabbed Keith’s arms—and that was definitely Lance, wasn’t it? They didn’t fall, but they engaged in a short, awkward dance of stepping down the stairs and catching their balance while they clutched at each other.

“Did you freaking fall from the—?” The harshness melted from Lance’s voice. “Hey, Keith. You on your way?”

“You’re in my way.”

Lance slid his hands down Keith’s arms to his wrists, and hung on for a second before dropping them.

“Sorry. Have fun.” Lance saluted, then went out through the main doors.

Keith wondered where he was going with that droop to his shoulders. He couldn’t be headed to an exam; his classes were over and didn’t seem to have anything on him except maybe his wallet and keys and phone. He wasn’t dressed for anything athletic or fancy; just a pair of destroyed jeans and a meme-less t-shirt that had small, jagged holes on the back.

Pado and Danbee had torn through two of Keith’s shirts, and the holes were similar. Lance hadn’t told Keith if he had dogs or other pets. He had three sisters—Keith had forgotten their names the second they left Lance’s mouth—and he had a mother. He had attended a dojang in Fremont with Hunk and Pidge. He’d gone to high school with Hunk, too, and he didn’t remember if Pidge had also been a schoolmate. That was all he knew.

Oh, and Lance was a meme-loving douchebag.

Their fourth Memeducation Private Session was scheduled for tomorrow night. Keith didn’t think he wanted to follow through.

He remembered that Shiro was waiting, so he hurried outside to the black Honda Odyssey parked near the left wing exit, no longer feeling like he was flying because Lance’s wilted shoulders were plaguing his thoughts.

#

The Thai House Bistro was a skinny building on the corner of a three-way intersection. The interior was dim, with most of the lights set into the ceiling. Five giant yellow-white spheres dangled from the ceiling, and as Keith and Shiro were led to the row of cozy two-seater booths lined against the back wall, Keith saw they were connected to a squiggly metal bar.

“When I was a kid, I wondered if they were as light as they looked,” Shiro said after they were seated and handed leather-bound menus.

“When you were a kid?”

“My family would come here every few weeks. We loved the food so much, we didn’t want to transfer to our local Thai restaurant in Galra.” Shiro opened the menu and spun it on the table to face Keith. “The meal offerings haven’t changed much, but the menu does. It used to be cardstock tied together by a silk ribbon. Black or white. My parents and I would bet on which one we’d get. The winner got extra sticky rice and mango for dessert. How good are you with spice?”

Keith was good with spice, compared to a white person. Compared to his parents…not really. He didn’t want to take a risk though, so he said, “I’m okay with it, I guess.”

“We’ll stick with the safe dishes, just in case.” Shiro winked.

Shiro pointed at the Rice & Noodle section on the glossy menu page. “I particularly recommend Pad Thai and Pad See Ew, as they were the first dishes I tasted, and if they made me fall in love Thai food, maybe you’ll fall in love, too.”

“Pad See Ew, then.” Keith closed the menu and slid it to Shiro.

The table was small. Shiro was close. His eyes were bright and dark, a starry sky that twinkled with hope and happiness.

Eyes were windows to the soul, to the heart, and when his mother had looked into his father’s eyes, she had heard the heartbeat of a loyal man and known he was the one for her.

He did not hear a heartbeat in Shiro’s eyes. His mother hadn’t heard his father’s heartbeat until their friendship was well-developed, when they had been known each other’s company for two years, so he didn’t worry that Shiro’s heartbeat was hidden. It would reveal itself later.

The burning and the calm Shiro brought with him were enough proof that something significant was seeded in their relationship. Given time and nutrients, it would sprout into a beautiful tree with deep roots and branches covered with healthy leaves.

Shiro relayed their order to the stern-faced waitress and returned the menus with a dazzling smile that cracked her mask. Keith didn’t pick up what Shiro had ordered for himself, or whatever he told the waitress that had her laughing.

Their waters were promptly placed on the table. Shiro tore off half the paper covering a plastic straw and held out the naked end for Keith to pull.

The stripping of the straw and the gleam in Shiro’s eyes as he tilted a smile down at Keith were too sensuous.

His skin buzzed as he slipped the straw into his glass. He returned the favor, stripping half the paper off Shiro’s straw, and thought that Lance’s perverse nature had infected him.

He was unwrapping a straw. Unwrapping. A. Straw.

His brain manifested Lance’s unbidden voice: _Go to church, you sinful child._

Lance stayed in his head, scolding his filthy mind as he watched Shiro sip from the straw, lips going tight, and he wondered—

Was this sexual attraction?

Was the mush in his stomach a sign that he was…

(Dare he say it? Dare he tempt the voice in his head?)

…aroused?

Lance howled with laughter. _My poor, sweet cinnamon roll. Or should I say sinammon roll? With an ‘s.’_

Keith swatted mental hands at Lance’s disembodied voice.

He had never been aroused by a person before. Arousal came randomly, like an itch, and he took care of it in private, never with somebody in mind.

Like a gunshot, his sudden thoughts of Shiro doing non-Shiro things (and definitely non-dad things) blasted him in the gut.

It could happen. It really could.

That look Shiro was giving him. That smile he was making around his straw. The way they had touched.

There really was something between them.

Pidge was wrong.

His mother was right. He’d found someone special. He hadn’t met him during WoW…but it was close enough.

“I have to use the restroom,” Keith said.

“I’ll be here.” Shiro sipped some more. The water level lowered.

 _All that liquid in his mouth_ , Lance murmured.

Keith tripped over his chair’s legs. His knees buckled because of course they would malfunction when his stomach was pooling its contents between his legs and of course Shiro would jolt from the table and catch him and of course the heat radiating from Shiro’s large hands would burn him and go straight to his groin.

_Who the hell pops one over a straw? W-T-F, dude._

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” Keith walked out of Shiro’s hands ( _you want them all over you, huh?_ ) and tried not to waddle to the bathroom ( _what’s it like to fight a boner while I’m in your head?_ ).

One of the unisex bathrooms was taken. He slammed into the second one, locked the door, and his arousal wasn’t completely _there_ , but it wasn’t hard to work himself up and take care of his business.

There was an added thrill to doing it in a public bathroom, with dozens of oblivious people not far away.

_Who knew you had it in you? Sicko._

He finished fast, Shiro stuck in his mind—and Lance, too, because somehow the idiot managed to wedge himself into Keith’s thoughts. Only, he wasn’t saying anything. He was just there. His stupid face was competing with Shiro’s, trying to interject himself completely into Keith’s fantasies. What an egocentric bastard…so stuck up that he forced his derpy smiles into other people’s jerkoff sessions.

Keith took his time washing up. He splashed cold water over his burning cheeks, washed his hands with four pumps of foaming soap.

Someone tried opening the door.

“Hold on.”

He returned to the table, hoping the man who’d gone in after him didn’t smell anything strange.

Shiro was rubbing the condensation on his glass. He looked out of touch with the present, too deep in a disturbing thought.

“What’s wrong?” Keith asked.

“Nothing.” Shiro blinked the haze from his eyes. He looked unwell. Sick, even. “Sometimes it hits hard that I’m not a typical undergraduate.”

“Because you took a gap year?” Keith stuck his tongue out to catch his straw. It evaded him.

“Gap years.”

Keith finally got the straw in his mouth. He drank. Chilled water filled his mouth.

“I’m turning twenty-five in December.”

Keith almost sprayed his water. He choked it down. His throat was dry, despite the water surging down it seconds ago.

“Wut,” he said.

“I started college when I was twenty-three. I’m a late bloomer.”

A thousand emotions waged war in his head.

“That’s why my nickname is dad.” Shiro sighed miserably. “I’m the oldest sophomore living on campus. Some colleges have non-traditional housing for adult students or families, but LU is too small for that.”

Twenty-four was an appropriate age to start thinking of stocks and hedge funds, marriage, family plans, retirement funds—advanced adult things.

Keith was eighteen, a legal adult, but still on the mile-long cusp between teenhood and adulthood.

His parents had taught him similar yet completely opposite views of adulthood. Privately, during the moments when mother and son, or father and son, had the world to themselves, Keith learned that his mother believed it was okay to be terrified of growing up.

Days before he moved into his dorm, while driving to Bed Bath & Beyond for the rest of his dorm necessities, she confessed that she sometimes thought herself unworthy of having a family; how could she, a child hidden in a woman’s body, care for living beings without forgetting to care for herself? She worked, paid the bills, kept the house in order, trained and fed and walked the dogs, taught her son how to respect others and himself, and most importantly, how to survive in a harsh world. But still…she thought herself a child.

“You’re amazing, Mom. Everything would fall apart if you weren’t here,” Keith had said, sick to his stomach, because mothers never deserved to feel unworthy of anything.

“Thank you, sweetheart. Don’t be afraid to feel the same way. There will always be people counting on you, even if you feel they cannot rely on you. After all, look at the fine man you’ve grown into.”

His father believed that nobody ever felt a hundred percent adult, but an adult’s job was to ignore the fear of not being enough and—

It didn’t matter. Keith was an adult only by name.

“Hunk said you were twenty. He said you took a gap year.”

“Are you sure? He knows I’m twenty-four.”

Hunk had whispered it to him. Maybe he had misheard.

He texted Hunk: **_Didn’t you say Shiro was 20?_**

He left his phone on the table, screen up. His disregard of dining etiquette was uncalled for, but his hurt was deep. He felt betrayed.

Shiro chewed on his lip and toyed with his straw, dragging it in slow swirls through his iced water. Keith watched

Twenty-four was too old for an eighteen-year-old. Yet, Shiro was the same as he had been weeks ago. Did age really matter? Keith’s heart didn’t care; its heavy beats stuttered when Shiro combed long fingers through his white forelocks.

“Is something bothering you?” Keith said, pitching his voice into what he hoped sounded years beyond his flimsy age.

He bumped the shell of his ratty sneaker against Shiro’s leather boots. They were the semi-dressy footwear that Keith’s fashionable classmates wore with tailored jeans and slim tank top under an unbuttoned dress shirt with rolled up sleeves. It was a weird trend that worked for most men. For Shiro, it worked wonders.

Shiro cleared his throat and drew his foot back, looking downward. His eyes settled on something near Keith.

“You have a text,” he said.

Keith’s phone screen was lit up. He took it off before Shiro could read whatever message whoever had sent.

**Hunk: No? He’s 24.**

**_You said he was 20 and that he took a gap year._ **

**You probably heard wrong??? I don’t think I’d screw up that much.**

“Pad See Ew?” the waitress said, startling Keith into slapping his phone on his lap.

“Here,” he said.

She placed a rectangular dish of browned stir-fried rice noodles mixed with broccoli and egg. The other dish, which had a long name that Keith didn’t catch, was a hot plate of jumbo shrimp, fish, scallops, squid, and baby octopus. Keith could smell the garlic, chili, and basil it was sautéed with.

They dove into their dishes and gushed about the vibrant flavors dancing on their tongues. Shiro stole a few bites from Keith’s plate, and Keith fired back, stabbing his fork through the last three octopuses and grinning evilly as Shiro as he brought them toward his mouth.

Then Shiro gave an exaggerated frown, and a brilliant idea popped in Keith’s head.

He held out the fork. “Take a bite.”

Shiro flinched back, shock overwriting his playful glow.

Keith lifted the fork closer to Shiro’s parted lips. “Go ahead.”

“Uh, Keith, I….”

Keith blinked. When he opened his eyes, Shiro was out of his chair.

“Shit, I have to call someone.” Shiro took a step away. It felt like a dozen. “I just remembered. Sorry. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Perhaps. Ask for the bill, please. I’ll pay when I get back. I really have to make this call.”

Keith was sitting, but he felt like he was falling as Shiro took long strides out of the bistro, shoving the door open so hard that it almost smacked into approaching customers. Apologies fell from Shiro’s mouth as he rushed away, his hand going to his back pocket.

Shit.

“Shit,” Keith said to the octopuses still impaled on his fork.

He had moved too fast and caught Shiro off guard. He’d made him swear. Shiro was the team’s dad. He wasn’t allowed to say “shit” or “fuck” or anything worse than “damn.”

Keith cleared his plate, and because Shiro’s plate was almost empty and he was starving (his poor appetite from the past weeks had accumulated into a need to stuff himself when he could), he finished Shiro’s food.

He flagged the waitress down and asked for the bill. She produced it from the pocket her black apron, and he immediately gave his credit card. She returned speedily and asked if his companion was okay; she had seen him pacing outside, worriedly speaking into his phone.

Keith assured her that Shiro was fine. He wrote a tip for about twenty percent of the total bill on the bistro’s receipt, then debated between leaving and finding Shiro, or waiting at the table.

About fifteen minutes had passed since Shiro left. The busgirl swept in and cleared the table. She wiped it with a wet rag, let it air dry. Keith apologized for Shiro’s lengthy departure. She said it was fine and not to worry because there were still plenty tables available.

A minute passed.

He sent Shiro a text asking if everything was okay. Shiro didn’t respond.

A text came in from Hunk: **Random, but did you really think Shiro was 20???**

**_Yes!!! I did!!!_ **

Hunk’s speech bubble popped up. Disappeared.

**_What?!_ **

**(((awkward)))**

**_(((what?)))_ **

Keith kept an eye on the door for Shiro. If two more parties came in before Shiro, he’d get out and find him.

**(((nothing)))**

Never mind. He was leaving.

He went to the doors, thanking the waitress on his way by the small bar that was near the front doors. Her returning smile was tiny and overshadowed by the concern in her eyes. The bartender was polishing glasses for the glass cabinet hanging in front of the bar counter, but he paused to give Keith a weighty smile that was doused with sympathy.

Keith waved and felt a little peeved that the waitress likely had gossiped about Shiro running out; their table had been in the corner, hidden from most of the restaurant: a private, romantic setting perfect for them to take the first steps into a relationship.

Shiro wasn’t anywhere in sight. The sidewalk stretched into the horizon, Keith’s vision obstructed by outdoor seating, chalkboard menu signs, people, and cars pulling into the parking garage.

He almost decided against calling Shiro. Then he noted the time. He had been Shiro-less for fifteen minutes.

For a pre-first date, this was awful.

He called Shiro. The dial tone went on for a few seconds, then crackled as Shiro answered.

“Keith, I’m so sorry. I’m on my way to you. I took a walk while I talked and—it’s amazing how far you can go when you’re deep in a conversation. I’ll be there in a minute.” The call ended.

Shiro hadn’t given him time to breathe a word. Worry filled him, blooming like a perverse flower.

He sat on the concrete slab next to a dirt plot, where a large tree provided shade, and checked the new texts he’d received while calling Shiro.

**Lance: Memeducation tomorrow night. Don’t forget. We can do it tonight if you’re free, which I think you are**

Keith typed and sent his response: **_I’m not in the mood. Cancel it._**

**We haven’t changed the time. It’s still tomorrow. I just offered tonight as a possibility**

**_I won’t be in the mood tomorrow either. Cancel it._ **

**Why are you so pissy?**

He bet Lance was directly related to whatever had ruined his otherwise picture-perfect lunch.

“You look like you’re about to snap your phone in two,” Shiro said, walking the final feet to Keith.

Keith put away his phone and scrutinized Shiro’s appearance. He was smiling, his posture was upright, his stride was confident—but his body radiated with unease. His eyes were bright but duller than usual.

Their day was over. Keith could tell that much from how Shiro wouldn’t take the final step to him.

“Are you okay?” Keith said, hearing the words as a question for himself.

“I will be. You paid the bill? I’ll pay you back. How much was it?” Shiro reached back for his wallet.

It was a short, elusive response. Shiro wasn’t okay, and he didn’t trust Keith enough to elaborate.

“It’s fine. My treat.”

That was the mature answer. Shiro would appreciate an eighteen-year-old who spoke like he had his own money, and not a bank account filled with $5,000 he had received during his lackluster graduation party.

His “friends” had hosted their own parties, but didn’t disclose the dates or times or locations to Keith. During the later weeks of school, they had mentioned sending traditional snail mail invitations to their friends and family. So he had waited for expensive envelopes to appear in his mailbox, mixed with credit card statements and bills. Nothing had come, and when he sent his invitations by mail and texted for their responses, his inbox remained blank.

The day of his party, dozens of relatives and friends of his parents had filled his house, spilling onto his front and backyard.

He had waited, though he knew nobody would come. They had ignored him during gradation—during Senior Night—and even—even during the school year—

But that was the past; the present had Shiro and Pidge and Hunk and Allura and Coran and Lance.

They’d get closer on Saturday, and the next club meeting was their final one as a seven-member group.

The new members would join, split the original group’s attentions.

Keith had ruined half the first meetings. He had to make up for it. He had to apologize to Pidge through action. He’d act his best from now and onwards. He’d try to work with Lance. He had to show Pidge he wasn’t the annoying newcomer who fucked everything up in a matter of minutes. (How quickly had the last meeting degenerated? Ten minutes? Five minutes? Lance’s tank top had altered time. Pepes were more than a meme. They were witchcraft.)

“Keith.”

He blinked out of his drift. “Yeah?”

“How are you feeling?” Shiro had closed the distance and was kneeling in front of him.

“I didn’t have friends in high school.”

The back of Keith’s mind was hazy, and a subtle pain throbbed beneath the pinch of his eyebrows, a strange location for a headache.

“I floated between groups so people wouldn’t think I was a loner,” Keith continued. “I tried talking, but everything I said was better suited for small talk. Conversations went from sixty to zero in seconds. They looked at like me like they were doge, like they were thinking stuff like, ‘such charisma,’ or ‘wow, so amaze.’”

“That’s a…very interesting comparison.”

Shiro was clearly trying not to laugh. He avoided Keith’s eyes, as though that would keep the laughter from bubbling out. Keith looked to his lap to offer privacy.

“Thanks. I learned it from Lance. He makes me do these Memeducation sessions where he teaches me different memes and Internet lingo. The class goal is to help me assimilate to modern culture.”

Shiro coughed. “Sounds very interesting.”

“You can laugh. I know you want to.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t.”

Shiro brushed his forelock over his head then let go, letting it flop back into place. Keith wanted to stroke his fingers through it.

“Memeducation.” Shiro bit his lip. “I can’t believe this.”

“He calls himself a Memaster.”

“Stop, please.” Shiro held up a hand, then brought it to his forehead and rubbed where Keith assumed was a building headache.

He was smiling, though, so Keith said happily, “Is that spelled normally or is it simplified to p-l-s? There’s a difference.”

Shiro broke. He laughed into his hand, shoulders shaking, and Keith told him about how “stop” had a variation of “stap” or “stahp,” and how the feelings elicited by each was different. He told him about how “small” and “smol” were different words, and how “tall” and “tol” differed in the same way.

Keith kept talking, wanting to make Shiro laugh harder. He shared the memes he had learned, the slang Lance had him apply to model conversations, the fill-in-the-blank sentences that Lance had pulled from the Internet, and the way Lance pitched his voice for certain memes like “making my way downtown, walking fast—walking _faster_.”

On the way home, Keith looked up memes on his phone’s browser, and he found himself scrolling through websites dedicated to meme definitions and examples and catalogs. He shared them out loud, and Shiro, who admitted he tried to avoid stuff like this, laughed and asked questions about meme context and origins and suggested that Keith share these with Coran.

Shiro followed Keith to his dorm, and Keith stared at his phone, reading off the good shit meme. He tripped in the stairwell, but Shiro caught him and hauled him upright, then kept a hand on his back.

“Right, _check mark_ , there _, check mark, check mark_ , if I do say so myself, _one hundred percent_ , I say so, _one hundred percent_ , that’s what I’m talking about right there right there—then things get complicated but there’s an audio so…”

“Play it.”

Keith pushed the play arrow, and a cartoonish voice grunted and sang through the meme.

“It’s probably an advanced meme. The effort put into the vocalization is—” Keith laughed. “Lance would do this. He’d do this in the middle of training, when Pidge does an aerial kicks.”

They emerged onto the third floor. The supportive hand on his back started to retreat, but he was daring, fueled with confidence from the laughter he had coaxed from Shiro’s mouth. He grabbed Shiro’s hand.

“Oh.” Shiro’s eyes bulged open. He neatly twisted his wrist out and stepped back. “Keith, I—I can’t.”

Nobody else was in the hall. All the doors were shut. They were alone, standing in front of the east stairwell.

“Pidge said you’re tactile,” Keith said. “You like touching.”

“Yes, but I think you’re reading into a signal that doesn’t exist. I’m not….”

Keith’s heart started hammering in his chest. He broke into a cold sweat. His head swarm. The haziness returned, spreading from the back of his head to the front.

“I can’t return your feelings.”

Keith wasn’t going to cry. His eyes were dry. They wouldn’t blink. His heart felt like— Like it wasn’t there. It had fallen out his chest through a hole he couldn’t find. Maybe the hole was in his back. Or his side. Wherever his heart had gone, whatever pathway it had taken—wasn’t important.

He was numb.

Shiro was apologizing, saying that he thought Keith wanted comfort through platonic, physical touch. He had comforted other people with the same method (“method,” like it wasn’t personal at all), and no one had mistaken it for romantic come-ons. He should have clarified, he said, and he was _so_ sorry that Keith had to experience this.

Keith was sorry for himself; there was a hidden hole on his body that he needed to plug up or he’d lose more than his heart.

He unrolled the bundle of fabric in his back pocket. His lanyard. It was his lanyard, he reminded himself. His lanyard had keys on it. There was one for his door.

Shiro followed him to his dorm, saying Keith was a wonderful young man who deserved someone closer to his age.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and Shiro said something he didn’t hear, so he repeated himself as he unlocked his door.

He went inside. Shook off the hand holding his shoulder. (Why was he touching him? Wasn’t he worried Keith would read into it?)

“Sorry.” He closed and locked the door.

Stared at it.

That hadn’t been good shit.

He deserved one of those “you tried” gold stars. The ones people got when they hadn’t tried at all. He Googled it on his phone and found a “you didn’t even try” star, and a “there was an attempt” star, and—he laughed at this one—a yellow triangle with the words “I can’t figure out what you’re trying to accomplish here.”

He texted the triangle to the first person on his mind. True to the star’s Comic Sans black font, Keith couldn’t figure out what he was trying to accomplish by sharing a meme with Lance.

**Lance: Oooh. A meme variation that requires extensive knowledge of the original meme in order to comprehend. Very good, Keith**

**_“Extensive knowledge” xD_ **

**DO NOT “xD” ME >:C WE TALKED ABOUT THIS, KEEF**

**_I’ll do whatever the fuck I damn well please asshole_ **

Keith dumped his shoes next to his bunk’s ladder, then climbed to the top and curled on top of his comforter with one of his pillows hugged to his chest.

He napped.

#

VOLTRON SQUAD

 **Shiro:** Reminder: Party at Pidge and Hunk’s place this Saturday. I can take Lance and Keith with me.

 **Lance:** We’re riding in Daddy’s mini-van? :)

 **Shiro:** Your daddy is in Fremont.

 **Pidge:** I almost want to call that a clapback

 **Hunk:** Not intense enough.

 **Lance:** I miss my daddy and my mommy and my sisters and my dogs. :`C I’ll consider it a clapback

 **Hunk:** Do you need cuddling? I’ll cuddle with you.

 **Keith:** Platonic, right?

 **Pidge:** ………………

 **Hunk:** Yeah! Why wouldn’t it be?

 **Keith:** You should clarify.

#

SHIRO

 **Shiro:** Keith, what are you doing?

#

LANCE

 **Lance:** You all right there, buddy???

#

VOLTRON SQUAD

 **Lance:** Hunk is a very cuddly person. He gives kisses, too

 **Hunk:** Love for everyone!

 **Keith:** Correction: platonic love.

 **Pidge:** I don’t know if I should scream or laugh

 **Keith:** Tell us when you make up your mind. Don’t want anyone getting mixed messages.

#

PIDGE

 **Pidge:** KEITH WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED WITH SHIRO

#

SHIRO

 **Shiro:** Please don’t do this in the chat. Do you want to talk? I can head over right now.

#

LANCE

 **Lance:** WHAT HAPPENED DURING LUNCH????

#

VOLTRON SQUAD

 **Keith:** Give me the address. I’ll take myself to the party.

 **Lance:** We can carpool <3

 **Keith:** No thanks.

 **Shiro:** Parking is difficult. It’ll be easier to take one car.

 **Keith:** Read at 10:21 PM

 **Pidge:** SCREAMING

 **Hunk:** Ska sneaks just San did be

 **Hunk:** (spell check ruined my keyboard smash)

 **Lance:** I know I shouldn’t fuel this but

 **Lance:** HE DID THAT

#

SHIRO & ALLURA

 **Allura:** All right, you two. What’s going on?

 **Allura:** I know you read my text.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shout out to cowtape (tumblr), who helps me with the memes and plot, and to aestover91 (tumblr), who helps me with the plot and korean!keith.
> 
> and thanks to all the artists who created these beauties:
> 
> http://corvuxredux.tumblr.com/post/148976977909/warm-up-doodle-of-lance-warming-up-in-backhand-by  
> http://fishfingersandscarves.tumblr.com/post/149143441020/yelling-from-my-house-go-read-backhand  
> http://levkawa.tumblr.com/post/149004251274  
> http://metakhfanonce.tumblr.com/post/148999515815/belated-klance-week-day-6-herovillain-inspired


	11. hammer fist

He was fine. Really, he was doing great. It was Saturday morning, his heart was in his chest—stitched in tight and protected with an inch-thick shield of numbness—and he hadn’t found that damn hole but his heart was safe and the rest of his organs were intact. He was good.

Nah, he was great. He was running on seven hours of sleep, not the best, but it was better than the all-nighter he pulled Thursday night to finish a final draft he had forgotten about for his College Writings class—okay, it wasn’t a full all-nighter considering he worked in a three-hour nap at 2 a.m. It was cooler to say he had spent a full 24-hours awake to do college things.

Pushing his body to the limit was a rite of passage to becoming an official college student. Next on his list (that was always changing because he stored it in his head) was an off-campus party dominated by upperclassmen and beer bottles and red cups and deafening rap music that had neighbors looking through their curtains as they phoned-in noise complaints.

Yeah, right, like he’d do something he’d been told not to do a million times by his mother—mom. “Mother” wasn’t hip enough. Neither were quotation marks. It was “ _Mother_ wasn’t hip enough.” Quotations had to be spread. Like Lance’s legs when he did the splits or that insanely cool and weird horse stance that definitely belonged to kung fu or karate or _something_ because tae kwon do restricted horse stances to shoulder-width.

He should challenge Lance to a squat contest—see who could hold the longest.

Shiro, who Keith was dubbing _Shito_ in his contacts list, was picking him and Lance up at noon, giving him a few hours after waking to shower, dress, and groom his hair with the sea salt spray he had picked up from the student store before dinner. One of the student cashiers, a perky blond senior called Rolo who went “bro, your hair’s crazy cool” at Keith, believed salt spray would work wonders with _Asian_ mullets.

 _Asian_ mullets.

Keith’s hair had its own nationality.

He mused over the absurdity as he took a steamy shower.

Funny that he hadn’t known his shaggy haircut was a mullet when he first got it. His haircut had been a bowlcut until he turned eight, when he decided he wanted to grow his hair out and ponytail it. When he turned thirteen, his mom suggested he try another style. The day after his birthday, she took him to a professional hairstylist—one who worked at a fancy salon that was marked as moderately expensive on _Yelp!_ and had over a hundred positive reviews. His hairstylist had been one of his mom’s semi-close friends—a five-year-old relationship that earned him a fifty-percent discount on a cut, shampoo, and blow out.

His mullet was born that day, and weeks after the cut, a port-bellied white man at 99 Ranch Market called it a fantastic mullet, and Keith learned the name of his favorite haircut.

The most he had ever put on his hair was a dab of mousse to tame flyaway hairs and add shine. He had never tried products marketed toward women, like the salt spray, or heavy duty styling gel.

Doubts of using the spray for the first time entered his thoughts as he walked to his room, wrapped in the smaller of his bathrobes. The hem was less than an inch past mid-thigh but nobody gave him shit for it.

Last night, while returning to his dorm from a shower, he had caught a guy gaping at his bare legs—and he barely believed it himself because it was fucking _insane_ and maybe it was a hallucination brought on by three hours of sleep. But if it was real, and if that guy from a couple doors to the left had been so shocked by Keith’s legs that he jabbed his key into the wall next to the keyhole _multiple times_ before getting it inside, Keith had to share it with Pidge—in person.

Would Pidge scream? Would he exclaim “SCREAMING”?

Keith entered his dorm and toweled off the excess water from his hair. Rolo had recommended he spray his hair before it dried for the best results: “When your hair’s damp, spritz everywhere and whip your hair back and forth. Let it air dry.”

Swallowing down his fear of overdoing the _spritz_ , he covered his hair with salty spray and head banged a few times, shaking something loose in his head that banged around in his skull and made him sick.

“Fuuuuuuuck.” He walked in a jagged line to his closet and rested his head against the cool wood.

A horrifying rush of anxiety washed through him.

He waited for the crushing desire to curl into a ball and cry to sleep to strike—force him to the carpet—his bunk was preferred but suffering didn’t give options; it did everything it wanted.

The anxiety was fleeting. It disappeared.

He tore open his closet doors, chanting _stupid_ under his breath.

His head swam as he plucked out the sky blue button-down short-sleeve shirt, white shorts, and lace-up shoes that he had worn to his graduation party, and lay it on his bed. He had worn this outfit a few times prior to that disaster; it was _the_ semi-casual outfit he wore to special outings, like church (which his family attended purely for the Korean social gatherings, not the religious services), because it never failed to fetch him compliments. He looked good in it; he felt confident in it. Then the shitty party had happened and suddenly he couldn’t stand it. He hadn’t worn it since then, splitting it into shoes, shorts, and a shirt; separate, they meant nothing.

He dried himself, rubbed sweet almond oil onto his arms and legs (also purchased from the student store because it was a clearance item and Rolo enthused it would strengthen his _Asian_ glow), waited twenty minutes for it to set into his skin (and read the recent update to the Eren/Jean fanfiction), styled his hair the way Rolo instructed (“Scrunch your hair to your scalp and run your fingers through it, but don’t pull on the knots. You’re supposed to look like a beach babe.”), and when his hair was only a little damp, he pulled on his clothes and—

Wow. He smiled at his reflection. His hair had that _just swam in the ocean_ look, touch, and—he sniffed his hair—it didn’t quite the have the ocean smell but that was okay. He liked the spray the same. The almond oil was wonderful, too; his skin glowed. (What the hell had Rolo meant by _Asian_ glow? Glows had nationalities like hair did? What kind of white people bullshit was this?) He didn’t look greasy; he looked…dewy. He’d gotten out of the ocean, but his skin and hair wasn’t fully dry—he loved,

loved,

loved it.

He had thirty minutes left, then he’d face Shiro and Lance, and he hadn’t seen them since Thursday—though they might have crossed paths on Friday and he hadn’t noticed because he was drunk on caffeine and trying not to explode from the energy zapping through his veins.

Caffeine was(n’t) good, so he went to Mane’s kitchen and poured himself a cup of coffee mixed with too many packs of sugar.

It didn’t take long for his brain to fire up. He was _buzzing_ —a beehive with workaholics flitting from his head to his toes…not doing anything particularly productive—roaming around for the sake of expending energy.

He was tired, though. Weird. No, it was stupid. Coffee wasn’t supposed to make you sleepy.

“Looking good,” someone called through their dorm’s open door as Keith went to his room.

“Mmmph” was his response.

He brushed his teeth, flossed, careful not to splash onto his shirt.

Fifteen minutes left.

He sat at his desk. Scrolled through a meme website. Poked through the Voltron chat. It hadn’t been updated since he slayed Shiro with one meme. _One meme._

Shiro was weak.

#

LANCE & SHIRO

 **Shito:** I’ll be there in ten minutes. :)

 **Lance:** Okie dokie

 **Shito:** Keith, will you be ready by then? :)

 **Keith:** :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :)

 **Shito:** :)

 **Keith:** (ಥ⌣ಥ)

 **Shito:** Very cute. :)

#

LANCE

 **Lance:** I’m laughing so hard rn

 **Keith:** If he sends one more fucking smiley face….

 **Lance:** We can still ditch him ;)

 **Keith:** Can we? He’s so fucking annoying.

 **Lance:** Serious question... Are you okay??

 **Keith:** I only slept ten hours in the past two days. I’m running on caffeine

**Lance: …**

**Lance:** Hold on

#

A minute later, Keith was opening his door for Lance and didn’t—couldn’t comprehend why he was relieved to see Lance’s dumb face spreading a smile for him, or why he was oddly pleased that Lance seemed to lose his train of thought when he studied Keith’s outfit and lingered the longest on his legs and hair.

“Are my legs weird?” Keith said, stepping back so Lance could come in.

“No, they’re great.”

They were better than Lance’s legs. Lance must’ve been jealous.

Lance was dressed normal, meaning he was wearing a normal t-shirt, a normal pair of baggy and torn jeans, a normal pair of athletic shoes—normal as in no memes and minimal skin—normal as in he could pass for an average teen guy who _bro_ -ed and _yo_ -ed and listened to hip-hop music through a pair of iPhone earbuds while he walked to class.

“How’d you get them and your arms to be so shiny?” Lance was mildly disturbed. “And why do you smell so good?”

Keith grabbed the bottle of almond oil off his desk and handed it to Lance.

“Oooh. Fancy.” Lance read the back of the label, where there was a bunch of mumbo jumbo about the business owners and their family’s mission to provide the best organic skin care to everyday citizens of the world.

Business mission statements were trash to Keith. The true mission was to do something oh so heartwarming that consumers forgot about profit being the major incentive.

Lance pushed down the cap’s side, exposing the slit on its other end, and sniffed. He wrinkled his nose, pulled a face.

Keith liked the scent a lot. It reminded him of the sweetened caramel drops his mom picked up for him from Safeway when he was a kid.

“I like it better on you,” Lance said.

“I’m flattered.”

“Bet it’ll smell better on me?”

Lance tipped the bottle to his hand and poured out a small puddle. He transferred some to his other hand then slapped his hands over his arms and spread the oil in hard strokes that emphasized the slick sound of flesh over oil over flesh.

“It warms!” Lance said, slipping his oily hands under his sleeves and moisturizing his shoulders. “Oh, man. If we bring this to the party, Hunk can give everyone foot massages.”

Keith murmured “yeah, sure” or “whatever”; he couldn’t keep anything straight in his head.

Lance’s skin was positively radiant and it was wrecking Keith’s thoughts because they wore the same oil but it was different on Lance—it brought out a deeper, warmer glow.

His scrambled thoughts produced one image: a topless Lance in tiny gym shorts, slathered in Keith’s almond oil.

The caffeine was fucking his brain. Fucking _with_ his brain. Caffeine couldn’t…. He wasn’t going to think about it.

Then Lance rubbed his hands over his hair and his biceps flexed. He hummed like he didn’t see Keith glowering at him.

“You know, this stuff works great with hair. My ex does almond oil hair masks every Saturday and she has the healthiest and softest hair I’ve ever seen. It seriously looks Photoshopped. She also uses it for makeup removal and aromatherapy. It’s the jack of all trades.” He poured more oil into his hands then slid them under his shirt, riding up the hem and exposing a triangle of skin. “And I probably shouldn’t have done that. It’s dripping into my pants.”

Keith ducked under his bunk to grab the paper towel roll that had fallen off the top of his fridge. He turned to offer and was met with a half-naked Lance rubbing oil over his chest.

“Really?” Keith said.

Keith had the better legs. Lance had the better abs. But no, that wasn’t correct. Lance had nice legs, too.

“Don’t want to waste it,” Lance said, cupping the oil dripping to his waistband and sliding it up to his chest.

“Does this have anything to do with the argument you and your roommate had?” Keith said, still holding out the paper towels, angling them to block his view of Lance’s abs.

“Nah, we never would’ve gotten this close. I told him I was bi and if he had an issue with that then I had an issue with him. He said he was cool so long as I didn’t do anything homo around him. I told him that made me uncomfortable, he told me _that_ made him uncomfortable…things escalated. But I won so…ya know. Fuck him.”

Bigotry happened every day, every second, but it had happened one floor down—directly below Keith’s room—to someone he knew.

He squeezed the paper roll between his hands. His breaths tightened in his chest.

“It could’ve been worse.” Lance slipped on his shirt.

“Doesn’t pardon it.”

“Of course not. I’m just grateful I didn’t get hit.”

“You wouldn’t have. You’d defend yourself.”

Lance was quick. He’d snap off blocks and counters in seconds.

“Maybe. There’s a difference between theory and application.” Lance flapped the front of his shirt, ushering air inside.

“You were good against me.” Keith set the roll on the fridge.

Silence—save for the snapping of Lance’s shirt.

“Is Keith What’s-His-Last-Name making friendlies with me?”

Keith realized he had been smiling kindly and not scowling at Lance. Unacceptable.

“Don’t make this weird,” Keith said, knowing Lance would hear that as an invitation.

Lance posted his glowing arms in the air and sank to his knees. “My skin is clear, my crops are flourishing, Keith is finally being nice to me, and world peace has been achieved.”

“If I was fully rested, I wouldn’t have let you in.”

Lance leisurely lowered his back to the floor and stared bug-eyed at the ceiling. He said, “This kills the man,” then lay still.

Keith leaned against his bunk’s ladder and watched Lance play out the rest of his improv meme play.

“ _Wake me up inside._ ” He scrunched his eyes shut and lolled his head to the side, whispering, “ _Can’t wake up._ ”

Keith seized the paper towel roll.

_“Wake me up inside. SAVE MEEEEE.”_

Keith threw the roll at Lance’s mouth, shutting him up for two seconds.

“Counter attack!” Lance sat up and pitched the roll in a snapping overhand throw.

Keith x-blocked his face with his arms.

“Damn your reflexes.” Lance dropped his back onto the ground, spreading his limbs into a starfish. “Did you notice my three-meme combo, though?”

Keith wasn’t answering. He peeked at the time on his phone. Shiro should be here by—

**Shito: _I’m outside. :)_**

—now.

Lance rolled onto his side to grab his phone from his back pocket.

“Smiley face,” he said and waggled his eyebrows.

Keith flipped him off. Suddenly, Lance became somber.

“Hey, about your sleep—”

“Don’t want to talk about it.”

Lance stiffened. “I’m worried, that’s all.”

Keith didn’t need his worry. He didn’t want his worry. All he wanted was to go back to yesterday’s lunch and delete all his crappy attempts at flirting.

“Thanks, but I’m fine. Let’s go. Shiro’s waiting.”

“We can still ditch,” Lance said, sitting on his knees and pivoting to watch Keith walk to the door.

He didn’t get a verbal answer, just a silent stare.

“Okay,” he said sadly and joined Keith in the hall.

#

VOLTRON SQUAD

 **Pidge:** [image: a white maltipoo puppy sitting on a bunched, fuzzy, pink blanket, staring round, black eyes at the camera; the lighting is soft, the image is crisp, and the puppy almost doesn’t look real]

 **Lance:** WHO IS SHE

 **Pidge:** If anyone’s thinking of ditching (cough cough Keith cough cough don’t do it), Matt brought his new puppy to socialize. Her name’s Daisy

 **Lance:** I’M IN LUV OMG

 **Lance:** LOL SO IS KEITH

 **Lance:** I THINK HE’S GOING TO CRY

 **Pidge:** GUYS OMG

 **Pidge:** SHE JUST PEED ON HUNK I’M LAUGHING SO HARD

 **Pidge:** [image: Hunk grinning and enthusiastically framing his hands around the wet splotch on his cargo shorts; sitting next to him is the small puffball that is Daisy]

 **Lance:** She’s so cute she could piss in my mouth and I wouldn’t care

#

Keith scrutinized Lance’s unaffected expression.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Keith said.

“It’s a joke.” Lance laughed.

Shiro peered at them in the rearview mirror, a parent checking on the kids before a backseat fight broke out.

“Shiro,” Keith said, putting a stupid thought that had popped in his head into action, “would you ever let a dog piss in your mouth?”

Shiro coughed. Lance cackled. Keith glared at Shiro in the mirror.

The remaining five minutes of the drive were blissfully silent.

#

Pidge and Hunk lived in a maze of upper class apartment buildings that Pidge’s family owned and ran with the help of a property manager who was “pretty fly for a white guy.” Lance told Keith about the one time he met the guy, a silver fox and “total sugar daddy on the prowl,” and about how he was given a fifty-dollar gift card to the Cheesecake Factory because the guy had been hoarding it in his wallet for months and was never going to use it. The guy had gone “Oh, you know what? Screw the rest of ‘em” and given him a bunch of gift cards to In-N-Out Burger, Chipotle, Sephora (it was a gag gift from the guy’s daughter), and Whole Foods.

“I’ve only used the Sephora one,” Lance said as they crossed the narrow and packed parking lot to Apartment 1A.

“On what?” Keith said.

“A facial mask. How else do you think I got my face like this?” Lance hopped in front of Keith and struck a Superman hands-on-hips pose, too close for Keith to veer around without clipping shoulders.

“Ouchies!” Lance frowned and rubbed his shoulder, falling into a choppy step alongside Keith. “You’ve wounded your comrade.”

“I call dibs on Daisy,” Keith said, speeding his steps.

Lance gasped. “You can’t call dibs on a dog. Dogs are free. Dogs pick who they want.”

Keith got to the door first and knocked. Lance bounded next to him and butted him in the shoulder as he clicked the door handle’s tab and opened the door.

“Where is she?” Lance shouted and toed off his shoes, nudging them next to the cluster of sandals and athletic shoes between the front door and the corner of a closet.

The apartment was narrow but tall. On the right was an alcove that housed a carpeted stairway. Ahead was a kitchenette, a living room, and a tiny backyard visible through a glass sliding door. The furniture was sparse, looked straight out of a house furnishing magazine, and made the first floor more spacious, and Keith sensed that the rooms upstairs were more decorated and personal.

“Smells good,” Shiro said.

Yeah, the first floor smelled great with the Filipino potluck on the dining table set in front of the kitchen counter.

Pidge trotted down the stairs, Daisy cradled in his arms and bouncing her head with every step.

“There she is,” Lance said, pushing Keith out of the way.

Hunk came down the stairs. Keith noted he had swapped his soiled cargo shorts for another pair of cargo shorts.

“Why are you so shiny?” Hunk said, looking from Keith to Lance.

A weird expression crossed Pidge’s face. “Is that oil I smell?”

“Yeah, we shared,” Lance said.

“Hnnnng,” Pidge said, twitching.

Hunk touched Pidge’s shoulder. “Don’t let it get to you.”

“Where’s Matt?” Shiro said.

“He’s changing. Got a lot of grease on his shirt,” Hunk said.

Shiro jogged upstairs, smiling mischievously, eyes glinting with friendly danger—a weird combination that made perfect sense to Keith because it was the same look Lance had given him while playing games...the same look he wanted Shiro to give him. _Had wanted_. He didn’t want to receive that look from _Shito_ after being strung around like a puppet, played to believe there was a chance of something and that his mom’s words were true: he would meet someone special in his freshman year and maybe he’d marry them and have kids and his life would roll down the correct path and he’d be happy and—

His mom intended for him to marry a woman because he was obviously straight and gays only _happened_ in families with plenty of sons; the mom ran out of male hormones to give the children, and the younger son was born with female in his genes. His mom didn’t believe in that; she didn’t give any inclination about her beliefs apart from god possibly not existing—still he dreamed—dreamed that she wouldn’t love him—if she knew—

If he married someone like Shiro—married because the law allowed it and it was a blessing that he would have most the legal benefits his dad deemed important (tax benefits and combined income and the such)—if he married a man with a heart as large as Shiro’s (without the stringing around and the “platonic and never romantic” touching) his mom might be pleased—his dad, perhaps not as much; his dad wanted a strong background for his wife. Business smart and tech savvy and beautiful and kind—a Renaissance woman (more standards placed upon her than a man)…. This was not Shiro. Who _was_ he? What was his major?

What was _Keith_ doing?

He didn’t know.

He was lost.

Someone took his hand, led him through the blizzard of his drift—onto carpet. He sat on leather, a worthy seat to pilot himself through the rest of the memories clogging his eyes—he saw but a blur—

He felt sick.

“Say something, Keith.”

This was awful.

Caffeine was awful.

He was never drinking coffee again.

He clung to the hand, pushed his face into the palm touching his cheek—

“You’re scaring me.” Was that Lance? Shiro?

“Leave me alone.” That was him: Keith. He got something out; drifts sucked the voice from his throat.

He curled his body on the leather—the couch—pillowed his arm under his head—closed his eyes—breathed—

“Keith,” Shiro said. “Keith, what do you need?”

“Not you.”

Silence came, only punctured by a stifled laugh.

“Give him space. Let him rest,” said a masculine voice Keith didn’t recognize. It was young and self-assured and gentle.

Silence came again—stretched—voices murmured around him—

Something soft and tiny nudged under his arm and settled against his chest. A warm tongue lapped at his chin, his mouth.

“Daisy, no,” Lance said, and the soft thing in Keith’s arm wiggled closer to his chest, away from his face.

Keith was drifting into sleep.

A soft touch graced his hand…and he was out…and

falling into a colorful dream where he and Lance began piecing together their fighting set, energy flowing from each technique to the next in a never-ending seamless cycle of defenses and attacks, none meant to severely injure the other should a block deflect a limb too hard or an attack land.

A heavy blow fell on his shoulders from an unseen assailant. He crumpled to the ground and fell out of his dream.

He swatted Shiro’s hand off his shoulder.

“Sorry.” Shiro stepped back, palms held up in peace. “You’ve been asleep for nearly two hours. Any longer and it might affect your sleep tonight.”

“You’re not my dad.” Keith realized Daisy wasn’t tucked against his chest. He looked over the couch’s hand rest and saw that nobody was downstairs. Next to the dining table was a see-through trash bag that was half-full with paper plates and napkins, plastic cups and utensils, and food scraps. Next to that was a bag with several aluminum cans.

“I’m concerned for you. Your drifts have—”

“Where’s Daisy?”

The interruption stumped Shiro into a short silence. He said, “Upstairs, distracting everyone. We’re working on the Involvement Fair stuff. We decided to get started now that everyone’s gathered.”

Shiro’s smile belonged in the trash. The trash compactor. The inferno.

“I can get her for you,” Shiro said.

Okay, so maybe Shiro’s smile belonged in a nicer place, like a recycling or compost bin.

“Don’t worry, fam! I gotchu!” Lance bounced down the stairs. Daisy likewise bounced in his arms, eyes rounder than round (it made sense in Keith’s caffeinated mind), and pitch black with puppy fear.

“Don’t bounce her,” Keith sputtered in horror.

“Don’t worry. I did the same thing to my dogs and they ended up fine. One of them knows how to piss while walking on his hind legs.”

“From brain damage.” Keith reached for Daisy. “Come here, sweetheart. Daddy will take care of you.”

Lance pulled Daisy back. “Oh, _hoh hoh hoh_. What was that I heard?”

Keith reflected on his words.

Sweetheart…Daddy…

Oh.

He hadn’t done The Voice, though…. Had he?

“Shut up.” He wasn’t blushing. He had no reason to blush. Everyone had a special voice for animals.

Lance laughed, jiggling Daisy in his arms. Her eyes screamed for mercy. He said in a honey-sweetened voice, “It’s okay, little booger. I’ll take care of you.”

“I’ll be upstairs if you need me.” Shiro tapped a finger to Daisy’s nose and made a kissy sound. She licked his finger. He cooed and petted her head, running his fingers deep through her hair.

“Bye,” Keith said.

Shiro kissed Daisy’s nose before he left.

“Did you get any sleep?” Lance sat on the couch, pushing Keith’s legs off his seat cushion.

Keith adjusted himself into a comfortable slouch against the armrest and backrest. “I don’t know. My eyes were closed and I was dreaming. Probably?”

“Hmmm.” Lance supported Daisy as she trotted over the couch and to Keith. “I can’t tell if you’re snarking me.”

“Me neither. My head’s spinning.” Keith held Daisy to his face and nuzzled his nose into her belly, a mantra of “don’t pee on me” repeating in his head.

“Do you want to eat? There’s a little of everything left. I can grab you a plate.”

“It’s all right. I’m not hungry.” Keith blew a raspberry on Daisy’s belly, then lowered her to his lap and gave her a tickling belly-rub.

“Are you sure?”

Keith didn’t feel hungry, but he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast’s small bowl of oatmeal and cantaloupe.

“Um…. I can try,” he said.

“I’ll get you some sotanghon. It’s easy to eat.”

Daisy tried climbing on Keith’s lap when Lance gave him a sturdy paper plate covered with sautéed rice noodles, grilled chicken slices, chopped celery, and onion leeks. It smelled divine.

Daisy clawed at Keith’s chest and whined.

“Come to your other daddy,” Lance said, patting his lap. Daisy wouldn’t come. He plucked her in the middle of a heartbreaking whine.

Keith ate everything on his plate, deeply in love with the spongey texture of the thin noodles and the vibrant taste on his tongue. He filled his plate with other dishes, trying out what Lance informed was chicken adobo, fried lumpia, and for dessert, banana lumpia, and he guzzled down a half bottle of water.

Lance played with Daisy while Keith ate. He blew her kisses, scratched her ears, her belly, spoke garbled nonsense in a honey-sweet voice that made Keith’s lips twitch upwards.

After Keith tossed his plate and fork in the trash, Lance pulled out the woven toy basket that was hidden on the other side of the couch. They rolled tiny tennis balls on the carpet, and little Daisy hopped after them like a rabbit, barking excitedly as she struggled to fit them in her mouth. Lance rolled a ball at her legs. She jumped around it, bottom popped up and tail wagging erratically as she pawed at it.

“ _Grrrrrr_.” Lance crawled to her. She barked and jumped at his arm, hopping on her hind legs. Her tongue flicked out like she wanted to lick his face.

Keith bounced a ball off Lance’s ass. He laughed. Wow. He had been aiming for Lance’s arm.

“My butt…. You took out my weapon.” Lance toppled onto his front, eyes closed. “Dead.”

Daisy barked a war call and pawed at his face. He held still, lips pressed together to hold in his laughs as she licked his mouth. He rolled onto his back and helped her climb onto his chest. His laughs became giggles as she slobbered on his face. He flashed a smile at Keith. Daisy put her tongue in his mouth. His legs jerked in the air and his eyes bugged.

Keith pulled Daisy off.

“Your turn.” Lance cupped Keith’s hands and pushed Daisy to his face.

“Wait—” Keith pushed away, but Lance held Daisy steady. “ _Mmph!_ ”

He fell to his back, holding Daisy because he couldn’t let her fall even though her fucking tongue was lapping at his gums.

Keith pushed Daisy to the ground. She licked at his ear. He rolled onto his knees. Touched his throat.

“You made out with a puppy, you monster,” Lance said.

The ding of an iPhone ending a video recording echoed in Keith’s ears.

A young man stood on the bottom step. He looked like an older Pidge; his hair was golden brown, short cut, frizzy; his skin was freckled; and his glass frame was owl-eyed. In his hand was a phone.

“I’ll send it you,” he said. He was the owner of the voice from Keith’s drift.

“You’re Matt,” Keith said.

“And you’re Keith. I hope you’re feeling better.” Matt took the final step down, tapping stuff on his phone. “I don’t have your number, so Lance can forward it to you.”

He filled a paper plate with banana lumpia and a mix of orange, purple, and white spongy, round desserts.

“How’s the poster board?” Lance asked.

“Finished. We’re working on booth decorations. Pidge wants to cover the table with photos of flashy kicks. Coran wants to prop kicking shields against the table legs for aesthetic.” Matt took a bite from one of the purple desserts.

“Keith and I can demo a fighting set on the side.” Lance grinned. “You up for that, bud?”

Bud was a name for a dog. Or a beer. Keith gathered Daisy into his arms and said, “Totally.”

Matt smiled. He walked toward the stairs, stopped. He pointed at Lance. “Pidge told me about your dogs…. Is it true?”

“Barry and Shrek? Yeah!” Lance laughed.

“You stole them,” Matt said, laughter glinting in his eyes.

“Yeah!” Lance paused. “Wait. No. It wasn’t like that. I found them in the park last summer. I took them to the vet, got them checked out and ID’d, but they didn’t have any chips in them, so I adopted them. They were half-starved and sad-looking, so I gave them fun names. Barry B. Benson and Shrek the Ogre. I trained them to interpret ‘here come dat boi’ as the call to lunch and dinner. Really, all I gotta do is shout it and they come running.”

Matt choked on the food in his mouth. He swallowed, thumped his chest. It looked painful, and Keith knew he was bad for enjoying the quick watering of Matt’s eyes.

“I think—” Matt rasped, “I think those are beautiful names.”

“I told you!” Pidge shouted from above.

"Can you blame me for being doubtful?" Matt went upstairs.

“Here come dat boi!” Pidge shouted.

“Oh _shit._ Waddap?” Matt returned.

Keith scratched Daisy’s ears. Matt was Pidge plus a couple of years. Probably in his mid-twenties, like Shiro.

“Keith,” Lance said, “what are your dogs’ names?”

Keith smiled. “Pado and Danbee. Pado means _wave_ , like an ocean wave. Danbee means _sweet bee._ ”

“In Korean?”

“Yeah.” Keith let Daisy leave his lap for Lance’s.

“What breed?” Lance rubbed a hand down the back of Daisy’s head, making her eyes jut out like tiny black marbles for a passing moment.

“Yorkies.” Keith smacked Lance’s knee. “Don’t do that. Her eyes will fall out.”

“Ugh. That’s what my mom tells me about Barry and Shrek. They’re mini-poodles.” Lance buried his face into Daisy’s fur. “I miss them so much.”

Keith missed his babies, too. His spoiled, fuzzy monsters.

“I bet our dogs would get along,” Lance said, voice dulled by Daisy’s fluff. “We should schedule a playdate for them. Maybe during midterm break.”

Keith’s heart clenched. “I can’t go home until Thanksgiving break.”

“Huh? Why not?” Lance lowered Daisy to the ground. She jumped out of his hold and climbed onto Keith’s lap.

Keith told the story about the coworker who had convinced his mom to ban him from the house.

“Bullshit,” Lance said. “Mid-term break is a _break_. Lots of kids go home.”

“It’s fine.” Keith swallowed down the clot in his throat. His head ached.

“Yeah, but….” Lance shrugged.

Daisy fell asleep on Keith. He absently combed his fingers over her back.

“Want to go upstairs?” Lance asked.

“I’m happy down here.” Keith smiled as Daisy curled into a tinier ball, fitting snuggly in the basket of his crossed legs. “I’m not in the mood for Shito.”

“Shito?” Lance cocked his head.

Keith grabbed his phone from the couch, where he’d set it before playing with Daisy. He opened the group chat he shared with Lance and Shiro, and passed it to Lance.

“S-Shito! I—” Lance burst to his feet and sprinted up the stairs, tripping three times on the first flight of stairs. “Fuckin’— Shito! Shito! AHAHA!”

Daisy jerked awake.

“Shhhh.” Keith rubbed her head.

“DADDY SHITO!” Lance screamed.

“ABSOLUTELY NOT,” Shiro screamed back.

Pidge laughed—gosh, Keith loved that laugh. Hunk joined, and Keith loved that laugh, too.

Shiro was losing his patience. What a glorious thing.

#

VOLTRON SQUAD

 **Pidge:** Daddy Shito

 **Lance:** Daddy Shito

 **Keith:** Daddy Shito

 **Hunk:** Daddy Shito (((i’m sorry)))

 **Coran:** Daddy Shito (((i am sorry as well)))

 **Allura:** Daddy Shito (((just this once for team bonding!)))

 **Shito:** All right. Just this once.

 **Pidge:** HE CHANGED HIS NAME TO SHITO. THIS IS THE TEAM DYNAMIC I WANT

 **Shito:** You want me to be called “Shito”?

 **Keith:** Yes.

 **Pidge:** asdfladlfkj

 **Lance:** Somebody call 911. Shawty fire burning on the dance floor

 **Hunk:** (((pidge, how do you make such perfect keyboard smashes on a phone?)))

 **Keith:** I don’t know this meme.

 **Pidge:** (((hunk, it’s saved to my spell check)))

 **Allura:** It’s a song.

 **Coran:** Even I know that.

 **Hunk:** asdfghjl

 **Hunk:** YES!! THANK YOU!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to cowtape (tumblr), my mememaster; aestover91 (tumblr), my korean!keith source; and varevare (ao3), my spanish!lance source.
> 
> songs referenced are "bring me to life" - evanescence; "fire burning" - sean kingston


	12. rest

**Lance: I miss Daisy :’’’(**

Keith missed her, too.

He and Lance had driven over on Sunday afternoon to play with her one more time before she and Matt drove back to their apartment in Cupertino. The highlight of the visit was Lance making a sharp turn in the parking lot and almost driving into Shiro, who had the same idea of saying goodbye to Daisy and wasn’t nice enough to tell them beforehand and invite them to carpool. Not that Keith would have accepted it.

He’d sooner carpool with Lance and his (sometimes, but surprisingly not always) crazy driving than partner up with Shiro. The only partnering up Keith saw in the future was smashing his fist through Shiro’s face in a sparring match. Accidently, of course.

The near-accident was Shiro’s fault; a byproduct of the crap he pulled with Keith.

Lance had swerved to the side and Shiro had flung himself against the trunk of his Odyssey and triggered the alarm.

Lance had slammed on his brakes and screamed, “Fuck, he’s dead!”

And while Shiro berated Lance for driving way above the speed limit (what the hell kind of speed limit was in a parking lot?), Keith had said solemnly, “No, he’s not.”

“What was that?” Shiro had said, nostrils flaring.

“Nothing, Daddy Shito,” Keith had responded in a childlike voice that earned him a bewildered glance from Lance.

Shiro had been about to say something (probably scolding by the stern hardening of his face), but Lance blasted his horn and zoomed away.

It was empowering to shock Lance, to piss off Shiro, to elicit powerful emotions from people, to _be someone_.

**Lance: I miss your dogs too, though I’ve never seen them**

Keith abandoned the Bible Study midterm study guide he had started after Astronomy let out. Sixty questions were spread out over three pages, asking for details to stories he didn’t remember reading, though he had thoroughly read every assignment.

He texted Lance a picture of his dogs sleeping on their luxury pet beds.

A couple seconds later, Keith received a photo of Lance curled under the dark blankets of a bed that undoubtedly was his, the sheets lowered enough to expose his bare shoulder and a little of his arm and chest. Two gray and unshaved mini-poodles were curled on the navy-blue comforter. The warm yellow lighting came from an unseen source and was all the difference between a cutesy photo and an intimate photo.

Then came a video. The display image was of Lance on the ground and laying Daisy on his chest.

**Lance: Forgot to send you this. It’s super cute :P**

Keith played it, and when he got to the part where Lance forced Daisy to French him, he internally died from a complex combination of embarrassment (he was _giggling_ ) and Daisy’s cuteness (she was just as cute on video). Seeing himself so…sunny and giggly (he wasn’t going to live that down) was weird and…glowy.

Had he seen this video before experiencing Daisy’s assisted Frenching, he wouldn’t have believed that was him with the armful of dog and the mouthful of giggles and dog tongue.

The guy on camera was happy, tilting his head away from Daisy’s searching tongue and pushing against Lance’s hands—larger and browner than his own. The contrast was a good sort of startling, like…aesthetically startling. Really nice to look at. Daisy provided a nice contrast as well.

Keith texted, **_White, yellow, brown. Racial unity._**

**Serious question: how much sleep did you get last night?**

Five shitty hours.

**_Five hours. Not enough. I can hear my brain trying to work._ **

**Dude….**

The speech bubble flickered.

**Isn’t that like three hours to a normal person?**

Duh, he wasn’t normal.

He put his phone aside and resumed work on his study guide, punishing Lance with the Silent Treatment. He’d been responding quickly up to then, so Lance would be left staring at his phone and waiting for a response that wouldn’t come for at least ten minutes.

Lance wasn’t having that, and Keith’s phone rang after the first few minutes. Keith groaned in irritation, but he hadn’t gotten much done in three minutes, unable to refocus his mind on a topic he couldn’t recall. He couldn’t process the next unanswered question on the list, or the tiny number next to it. There was a _2_ and a _4_. Twenty-four? Forty-two? Probably twenty-four because that was the answer to everything.

The ringtone died. Lance didn’t call back.

Keith swore and kicked his desk’s leg.

Fucking twenty-four questions out of sixty. He slammed his Bible shut and flung it onto his bed. He swore again. And again. Kicked his desk. He had two minimum ten-page midterm essays and two in-class exams. He hadn’t started studying or researching or outlining for any of them.

He wanted to scream.

Midterms were in two weeks. He had too much on his plate. He couldn’t clear a slice of it.

“A rock doesn’t move if you scream at it. It doesn’t move if you stare at it, or if you talk to it, or if you spit on it. It only moves if you move it.”

That’s what his mom would tell him if she knew he was floundering in his studies.

Oh man, he hated his studies. He loathed them. They were bearable when he had nothing to anticipate but the fulfilling emptiness of sleep. But sleep no longer came easy. It fought with him, punched him in the throat every time he thought he was about fall into his dreams. He fell…then was wrenched upward with a stomach curdling jerk.

Life would be wonderful if he could fast forward ten years to a time when he had a job, a stable life, and maybe, hopefully, possibly a husband and dogs and accepting parents and healthy plans for a family and college funds.

It was a beautiful thought to wrinkle the fabric of time and turn a decade of anxiety and anger into a line that could be stepped over—skipped—ignored.

He played with this fantasy well into Wednesday evening, when he carpooled with Lance to the final club meeting. There would be many more, hopefully, but they would be after the Involvement Fair, full of new faces and new bodies to become familiar with, and to view as enemies.

Lance asked about Keith’s sleeping and eating habits during the drive, and Keith thought it would be awesome if he could turn the drive into a wrinkle to skip over. No more questions about his sleeping or eating habits.

He gave short answers in an airy tone, hinting that he gave precisely zero shits about Lance’s concern.

(((Truth: He gave so many shits. Lance’s probing was irritating as fuck, yet not to the extent that _as fuck_ suggested. If _as fuck_ were a spectrum, Keith would be toward the left end, where _as fuck_ was applied at its most minimal level. He liked the niggling in his gut that said Lance genuinely cared for him. Lance wasn’t tooling around when he checked up on Keith with texts and calls. And hell, Lance didn’t press any deeper when told to fuck off.)))

Lance slowly pulled into the employee backlot and coasted into the parking spot between Shiro’s and Pidge’s cars.

“Remember when I said I hated carpooling because it makes me sweat?” Lance turned off the engine. “I kind of lied. I meant that I hate driving other people around. I get nervous. It’s like…I’m responsible for another person’s life, and it’s weird. If I do something wrong, you could die.”

Keith counted to three. Lance didn’t add anything.

“Why are you telling me this?” Keith said.

“Because…I don’t feel nervous driving with you.”

“You wouldn’t care if you got me in an accident?”

“What? No….” Lance pondered this. “Oh, I could’ve said that differently.”

“Sure.” Keith rolled his eyes. “You know, you were driving recklessly last week, so….”

Lance mumbled something that was lost under the sound of him opening his door.

“What was that?” Keith said, unbuckling his seatbelt.

“—trying to impress you.” Lance closed the door.

Keith blinked at the glove compartment door. What the fuck was impressive about Red Carpet center lanes and running red lights?

Keith and Lance were late because of Lance’s slow glide into the parking lot (and otherwise slow drive, as though he’d been stretching it out). Everyone was gathered in a loose circle on the Academy’s mats, Master Karen included. She was the only one standing and not stretching. She absently tugged on the ends of black belt as she spoke about the rules she wanted the team to uphold when the new members joined.

Keith didn’t listen as he stretched. Pidge looked spaced out, sick, and Keith had a feeling he was drifting. Hunk glanced at Pidge, worry creasing his brows. He nudged Pidge’s knee. Pidge nodded, attention aloof.

Shiro didn’t seem to notice; he was focused on Master Karen, nodding to everything she said about maintaining peace and avoiding so-called _duels_.

Shitty dad, Keith thought. Daddy Shito.

Keith direct Allura’s gaze to Pidge, and she nodded, lips pinched in a frown. She knew. So did Coran, who was having an eyeball conversation with Hunk.

They should cancel the club, but continue to meet weekly. Nobody needed the credit. Clubs didn’t look good on resumes anyway; they took up space unless you were the president.

Keith scowled at Shiro, though the guy couldn’t see it.

He was freaking twenty-four-years old, almost a full-fledged adult; he had adult goals. Adult goals meant throwing people under the bus, doing things only for profit, focusing more on oneself than others because that was capitalism. Shiro could brag to recruiters about being the father of a college club, managing the finances, the marketing, and the operations. He could brag about helping a young man realize his brain was fucked up, and that crushing on an older man was equally fucked up.

Shiro didn’t have to make this a club. He didn’t have to reap profit. Pidge didn’t have to be crushed. Keith didn’t have to fear becoming a wallflower. Hunk and Allura and Coran didn’t have to worry about Pidge’s loss of comfort and home and belonging.

Pidge couldn’t be himself around strangers. Neither could Keith…nor the team. Their dynamic would be deemed a clique to the new members. Shiro wouldn’t tolerate that.

“We’ll go over the rules during the next meeting,” Shiro said.

No, Keith thought, it wasn’t the _next_ meeting; it was the first.

“Want to work on the demo?” Lance asked in near murmur, poking Keith’s arm.

“I’m not flinging you into the table or the audience,” Keith said.

“You remembered!” Lance’s lips quivered. He knee-walked to Keith, arms stretched like he wanted a hug.

Keith froze for a second, curious about how it would feel to have Lance wrapped around him, squeezing tight or hanging loosely, holding him upright or pushing him on the mats. He hesitated. So did Lance.

“Want a hug?” Lance stayed in place, arms stuck out like a scarecrow’s arms.

Hug or no hug?

Why was it so hard to choose?

Behind Lance, Pidge was smiling. Gone was the green expression. Hunk’s arm was slung over Pidge’s shoulder, tucking him into his side in an open but protective gesture.

If Keith said _no_ , what face would Pidge make?

He noticed Shiro and Allura walking to the back hallway, Shiro throwing curious looks at Keith, and Allura clearly trying to restrain her smile from expanding into a grin.

“Um,” Keith said.

Coran was watching, twirling a corner of his moustache as he walked with Master Karen to her office. She was looking over, too.

What face would _everyone_ make if he said _no_? If he said _yes_? If he walked away in silence?

What would happen to the team dynamic?

What would happen to the rest of their final meeting?

“What equation are you running in your head?” Lance asked.

“Net income,” Keith said. “Revenue minus costs.”

Pidge snickered and walked away, a hand on Hunk’s slung arm. “Lance is a revenue all on his own.”

“ _Woooo_. Seven figures, baby.” Lance rolled his arms in a wave.

“I’ll pass.” Keith unfolded his legs from their butterfly stretch.

Lance deflated, shoulders drooping, arms dangling, lips pouting…. All an exaggeration. Keith didn’t like it. There was something in Lance’s eyes—a heartbeat! A slow, sad heartbeat.

Keith stretched an arm out. “Fine.” That was all the effort he was giving. He wasn’t rewarding Lance’s puppy-dog angle any further.

Like a puppy being offered a toy that had been dangling above its nose, Lance swept his arms under Keith’s and hugged him tightly, head tucked into the crook of Keith’s neck. Keith’s arms didn’t know what to do. Lance was…warm, firm, and—there was another word for this. Not comfortable but—wait, it _was_ comfortable. It wasn’t wild, and Keith didn’t know how that would factor into a hug, but Lance was wild so it was logical to assume the hug would be wild in some aspect, but it was mild and…uneventful.

Lance melted against Keith—that was the only way to describe it—and Keith spread his legs so Lance could fit better. It was still awkward with Lance hanging over Keith at a strange angle, but it was still comfy—startlingly comfy.

“Warm,” Lance said, his voice a breath against Keith’s skin.

“Good?” Keith’s arms finally figured out what they were supposed to do: go around Lance’s waist.

“A gorgeous display of team bonding,” Coran said from somewhere in the distance.

Hunk shushed him.

Keith’s eyes wandered to Shiro, who hung by the entrance of the back hall, watching with enjoyable uncertainty. Allura was out of sight, in the hall already, and Keith’s assumption was confirmed when a dark brown hand reached out and tapped Shiro’s shoulder. Shiro smiled, muttered an apology and disappeared.

“Let’s work on the fighting set.” Keith stood, tearing through Lance’s hug.

Lance watched him go up, a dopey smile and warm flush on his face. “What if we incorporated a hug? End of the set, we shake hands and hug for twenty seconds. It’s symbolic of all the new friendships the club will make. Bonding through fighting.”

Those new friendships wouldn’t include Keith. He’d be cast aside. The wallflower.

Lance gasped. “Bonding through fighting. That should be our slogan!”

Pidge booed.

“I like it,” Hunk said.

“It screams trouble,” Pidge said.

Coran tapped his chin. “How about…bonding through sparring?”

“Oooh. A little insider information in there. Pretty cool.” Lance grinned.

Keith didn’t want to think about new friendships and bonding with strangers. He wanted the club to stay as it was: a non-official club that Shiro wouldn’t profit off on his resume. Jeez. What the hell was he even doing in college? He was too old for this. He should’ve been working his way from entry level jobs to VP or CEO or whatever the fuck high-paying job Shiro wanted his pretty face to be associated with.

“Let’s talk about this later. Fighting set?” Keith offered Lance a hand up.

“Yes!” Lance pulled Keith down as he jumped up—then slammed his arms around Keith’s neck, bumping their bodies together and nudging Keith off balance.

Keith stumbled on suddenly goopy knees, arms full of Lance. It was different hugging him while standing up. There was more body-to-body pressure and it was less comfortable because Lance was _pushing_ their bodies together, and it was _so weird_ because there wasn’t a wall behind Keith and Keith wasn’t pushing forward but they somehow were smooshed together.

“Can hugging be a new thing for us?” Lance said.

Keith wasn’t burning, but he was melting…conscious of everywhere he touched Lance. He knew what Lance looked like without a shirt, and he knew the thigh muscles hiding underneath Lance’s shorts, and he knew the boxer briefs Lance was wearing underneath, and it was _too weird_. Because those _things_ were technically pressed against him—separated by fabric, and he rarely hugged people, so he rarely thought about body parts being pushed against him or— Clearly Keith needed more sleep. _CLEARLY_.

“Weird.” Keith pushed Lance away. “Too weird.”

“Dude, you turned into a block of ice.” Lance laughed. “A sweaty block of ice.”

“A melting block of ice, you mean?” Hunk said.

“Dude.” Lance glared at him.

Keith coughed. Scratched his neck. Pulled at his t-shirt collar. He noticed Pidge and Hunk were staring. Coran was fixing his moustache in the mirror, his lips twitching to fight off a smile.

“I’m so embarrassed for you,” Pidge said, “and I don’t know why. Come on, Hunk. Let’s make our own fighting set.”

“Yup,” Hunk said, following Pidge to their practice corner.

Lance spread his arms and stepped toward Keith. “Want another hug?”

Keith’s heart stopped. “Uh, can we start the set with me punching you in the face?”

“Let’s do what we did last time. It’ll come naturally, and you’ll get all the shots at my head as you please.”

Keith threw a punch, and as expected, Lance blocked, pushing Keith’s arm to the side and exposing his ribs.

Lance threw a counter punch.

Keith blocked, countered. Then Lance blocked, countered.

And so they went, establishing a pattern of trust that every attack would be blocked, and every block countered.

“Are you memorizing anything?” Lance asked before swinging his foot at Keith’s ribs.

Keith slide-stepped back, then hopped forward with a push kick, intending to slam his foot through Lance’s chest and force him to the ground. Lance stepped aside.

“Don’t need to,” Keith said. “We can improvise.”

“I like your thinking.” Lance winked, then stepped in with a three-punch combo that Keith barely escaped.

They practiced their improv set until Allura called for time and suggested a multi-attacker drill to finish the club meeting. Two people were defenders, the other five attackers. Each attacker wielded at least one pad, whether it be a kick shield, padded mitt, or clapper paddle. The two defenders had to work together to dispatch the attackers.

Hunk and Pidge were the first defenders. Keith strapped his hands into padded mitts and Lance held two clapper paddles.

“If I throw myself at Lance, surely he will drop his pads and catch me,” Hunk said, posting himself back-to-back with Pidge at the center of the mats, like they were about to pull off one of those “you take the left and I take the right” moments.

“If you throw yourself at me, surely I will be crushed to a pulp.” Lance slapped the clapper pads together, the sound cracking through the Academy like a gunshot.

“Ready?” Allura held up her mitted hands in a loose fighting stance.

Lance attacked first, jumping at Pidge and swinging both his paddles, one at Pidge’s head and the other at his chest.

“The fuck?” Pidge jumped back, then flicked his foot out and kicked both the pads with a low-high kick, his foot not touching the ground between kicks.

Coran rushed at Hunk, his kick shield braced against his side. Hunk fended him off with a push kick—then slammed his fists into the mitts Shiro held out.

Pidge screamed as Allura and Keith came at him with punching mitts. He kicked and punched wildly, ducking under the mitt Allura swung under his head, then coming up to pop his fist through her other mitt.

Lance cackled and danced around Hunk and Pidge, swinging his pads at their unprotected limbs.

“You’re using them wrong,” Keith said.

“Nobody fights fair in real life!” Lance clapped his pads. “Better prepare them for it.”

After Lance went ape shit on Pidge and Hunk with his pads-turned-weapons, he and Keith partnered up. Lance refused to start unless they stood back-to-back and rattled off a cliché “you get east and I get west.” Keith was fairly certain they were facing the wrong directions.

Keith wanted to say they clicked and had as amazing chemistry as they did when performing fighting sets, but they were stumbling fools when given multiple targets to share. Lance bounced from pad to pad, sometimes intercepting Keith.

“Interception!” Lance said as he pushed Keith away from Shiro and lay his own two-punch combo into the mitts.

“Quit stealing his kills,” Pidge said.

Lance hooked his foot through Pidge’s kicking paddles in a slicing kick that almost tore the handles from Pidge’s hands.

Keith was forced to strike faster to beat Lance. Instead of working together, they worked against each other, and that was the closest to graceful partnership they got.

When Shiro and Allura were up, Lance followed Shiro across the matt and swung his mitts without pause.

Shiro was separated from Allura—and everyone else. His punches and kicks quickly became blocks because punching a punch wouldn’t go well, and Keith enjoyed the hassled expression on his face as he tried to regroup with Allura.

“Never thought he’d be hogging Shiro,” Hunk said.

“Hunk,” Pidge admonished, but not after badly coughing over a laugh.

Lance was pushing harder, faster, and Shiro matched him. Keith forgot he was supposed to be holding for Allura. He loosened his hold on the kick shield’s arm grips and his stance softened. Lance’s techniques were lined with an anger that built with every snapping movement. Shiro’s blocks were lined with the same power but lesser fury, and it was almost as if they were verbally arguing with each other.

“Focus,” Allura said, then pushed kicked Keith’s shield. He shuffle-stepped to catch his balance and knew she was holding back. She could send him flying if she wanted.

Keith tried to shift his attention to Allura, but an unsettling gut feeling kept his eyes tethered to Lance and Shiro.

“Switch!” Allura suddenly announced. “Coran is in. Lance and Shiro, grab pads.”

Lance and Shiro backed away from each other, chests heaving, skin glistening with sweat. Keith could imagine the scent radiating from their grimy bodies.

“Nobody died, right?” Pidge said.

“Once, but I got better,” Lance said proudly.

“Nice job.” Shiro thumped Lance’s shoulder as he passed, smiling like their death match had been purely friendly.

“Ouch,” Lance deadpanned. “You hurt my shoulder. I can’t spar anymore.”

“No more fighting sets?” Keith said.

That seemed to breathe life into Lance. He puffed his chest. “I didn’t say that. We can do it right now.”

“Not until I get my chance to send you six feet under.” Coran stood at the center of the pad ring and stretched his hamstrings. “I doubt any of you can handle my unrestrained power. I am an atomic bomb concealed under bone, muscle, and flesh. Do not underestimate my appearance. Looks are nothing. They only house the real goods.” He dropped into a stance that was a horse stance combined with a boxing stance. “Prepare to be vaporized.”

Pidge clapped his pads in a slow cadence. “Beautiful. Just beautiful.” He shook his head slowly, mouth quivering on fake pre-sobs.

Hunk started clapping, and that was the precursor to the club applauding and whistling while Coran took a bow.

Lance and Shiro each yielded one kick paddle.

“Start,” Allura said, and Coran exploded into action, ricocheting between strikes with amazing awareness.

The match ended as quickly as it began. Coran delivered a particularly hard kick to Lance’s paddle that tore through Lance’s grip and sent the paddle at Keith’s head.

Keith blocked with his kick shield.

The team applauded.

“Is this for my power or his reflex?” Coran asked.

“Both,” Lance said.

“Both is good,” Pidge added.

Allura and Shiro gathered the pads to stack away. Lance watched Shiro, and Keith’s stomach tightened as Lance’s head gradually straightened with confidence.

“You know,” Lance said, mischief trailing his words. “If I jump at Shiro, surely he will catch me.”

“Don’t,” Shiro said, not an inch of humor wedged into his stern voice.

“Do it,” Pidge said, taking a punching mitt that tottered on the tip of Allura’s pad pile.

“Are you sure he won’t deflect you?” Hunk said, but he smiled as if that outcome wouldn’t be a bad thing.

Lance ran and leapt at Shiro—not in the position necessary for the meme to be properly executed. Keith knew the response was supposed to be Shiro immediately dropping the pads and catching Lance bridal style. Lance leapt like a frog, like he wanted to scale the pads and clamber into Shiro’s arms, and Shiro didn’t drop the pads.

The pads toppled, Lance hit the ground, Shiro tripped backwards—

Pidge booed and flung his pads to the ground. “You _suck_ , Lance. I fucking can’t believe you. You didn’t even _jump_ right.” He kicked a clap paddle at Lance, who lay flat on his belly and was partially covered by a kick shield.

“Thus concludes the pre-club period of Leon University’s martial arts club,” Coran said.

“We can’t end this way,” Pidge said desperately, nudging another fallen pad with his big toe. “Lance fucked up a meme. That’s unlucky.”

Keith backtracked to his belongings sitting on the edge of the mats. “I can fix that.”

“You’ll jump into my arms?” Lance said hopefully, then gracefully summersaulted to his feet and plucked a paddle off the ground. “The tables have turned. The hero will be caught today.”

Keith turned and jogged to his phone, tucked with his wallet and keys in his shoes. “No, but I have something for you.”

He opened an image on his browser and hurried to Lance, holding it out.

“Dude, that’s an advanced variation of the _you tried_ star,” Lance said, glancing up with wonder.

“It’s more fitting,” Keith said.

Hunk and Pidge and Allura loomed over the phone.

“Amazing,” Hunk said.

“I can’t even recognize what you’re trying to do,” Allura read. “Is that supposed to be a star?”

“An attempt was made,” Keith said.

“Oh my gosh.” Lance unsteadily stepped back. “You counterattacked with another variation. Memeception.”

“He’s graduated,” Pidge said, clasping Lance’s shoulder.

Hunk wiped away an imaginary tear. “Our son.”

“I’m so proud of you.” Lance hugged Keith.

Keith’s weird thoughts from before returned. He battled against them as Lance draped his weight over Keith’s shoulders like a blanket, and as the team gathered the pads and cleared the floor. It was a long hug, one that had Shiro throwing weird looks at them (Keith stuck his tongue out in response).

Someone hugged Keith from behind—Hunk. Hunk and his thick, warm arms, and gentle strength. Pidge joined, tucking himself against Lance’s back—and then Allura and Shiro and Coran joined, and they became a ball of sweat and heat. Hunk whispered for Lance to keep the gases—unlike the _last time_. Lance retorted that he was in the optimal position for a nuclear fart.

“Tomorrow changes everything,” Pidge said. “We’ll meet new friends, new enemies—”

“Don’t say that,” Allura chided. “Think positively. New friends, new techniques, new discoveries.”

“Whatever happens, I won’t forget the fun we’ve had—and Keith’s hissy fits.”

Lance laughed against Keith’s neck. Keith went numb.

They pulled away, Lance being the last.

“It won’t be so bad expanding the club,” Hunk said. “Our group hugs will grow.”

“Don’t jinx us,” Lance warned with a wagging finger.

Keith’s stomach twisted and dropped into his gut. He wanted to believe Allura and Hunk, but he trusted Lance’s dulled energy and Pidge’s somber smile; when things went wrong, pessimism didn’t let him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lol does anyone still like this fic??  
> tell me, pls, bc it took me a freaking month to get this out.


	13. kiyap

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i honestly didn't expect such a reaction to the previous chapter.  
> thanks for your support.

The familiar faces Keith saw during the Involvement Fair setup mostly belonged to nameless classmates who only acknowledged the space he took. There was a boy standing in front of them so they had to walk around him because bodies were solid and it was impossible to travel through them, which Keith thought was a damn shame because he wondered how it would feel to be walked through.

He wondered if they would see him if they walked through him. Would they think, “Here is a body. I walk through the body. I come out the body. I am whole”? Or would they not even consider his existence, and think, “Crap, I’m gonna be late to my ethnics class. Not that I want to go. It’s a cesspool of bleeding heart liberals promoting reverse racism”?

Helping set up the martial arts club booth was like being a cog in a machine. Without Keith, the laminated photos of different martial arts techniques Pidge had brought wouldn’t be arranged properly on the booth; they would be piled on the corner of the foldout white table, waiting for Lance to stand on the table and rain photos on unsuspecting passerby to test their reflexes. If Keith had ditched—he had only considered it once, courtesy of an intrusive thought—then the team wouldn’t have snatched the table at the front left corner of the fair, where they had open space for demonstrations and excellent visibility from the inner-campus paths that connected the underclassman quad, where the fair was held, to the academic buildings.

Yet, just as nobody regularly considered the tiny parts that made mechanical pencils tick, Keith was invisible. Cogs only truly existed when they stopped working. The metal spiral that allowed the pencil to click without breaking didn’t exist until it was jammed. The lead tube didn’t exist until it was clogged with one too many lead pieces. But Keith didn’t have a set role, so if he had ditched, the team wouldn’t have noticed the benefits he took with him.

He made sure the giant foldout poster board, which was “black like Shiro’s soul” according to lance, was angled the best way to avoid collapsing if someone nudged into the booth. Shiro watched him with kind amusement, and he didn’t notice until Shiro touched his arm (it was more of a stroke, the longer he thought of it).

Pidge and Hunk taped laminated photos of scaled weapons to the draped edges of the table cloth, Lance arranged the kicking pads and Eskrima sticks and wooden knives along the table legs, ensuring they were propped in such a way that maximized aesthetics, and Allura and Coran checked on the competition by doing rounds and helping others out to disguise their subtle sabotaging of misplacing fliers, hiding tape, and nudging poster boards into position for easy collapsing. Well, that’s what Coran boasted with a sophisticated tilt of his head. Allura said he was lying because they were professors and advisers and that wouldn’t be good role-modeling.

“Besides,” Allura added with a smile, “our booth is greatest of them all. We’re the envy of the fair. Hundreds will flock to us and perhaps a hundred will sign-up. That’s how many lines I printed on it. Just in case.” She winked down at the sky-blue sheets on the booth. _yes! i’d like to join!_ it proclaimed.

Keith hoped the lowercase and Comic Sans font would turn off any interested students. It was Lance’s idea. Aesthetic, he had said. Everything he decided hinged on aesthetics. That was why he was wearing a mashup of martial arts uniforms. The soft, lightweight black pants that were baggy but somehow highlighted the curves of his muscles were from a kung fu school in Fremont, and the blue uniform shirt was from a karate _dojo_ in Sunnyvale. He didn’t wear anything underneath the shirt, and Keith knew with all his heart that Lance intended to shed his shirt and prance about with his drool-worthy abs on display. At least he hadn’t demanded Keith do the same—or the rest of the team.

Everyone else wore clothes similar to what they wore to training, so Lance was the mascot.

“I should do cartwheels down the aisles,” Lance told Keith as the fair settled down from its preparation buzz.

The booths were ready, the club representatives posted themselves in front or behind their booths, and Keith felt the many eyes that flicked to the martial arts booth every few seconds. Students passing by, on their way to their dorms, or already perusing the booths, were caught by the flashy booth and the flashy Lance who was twirling a pair of steel-bladed kama at his sides.

“Wait,” Keith said. “Isn’t that against school regulations?”

“Yes,” Pidge said, “but who cares? Kama are cool.”

“It’s not like I’m going to kill anyone— _woah_!” Lance tossed a kama in the air, making it spin and flash as the sun glittered off it. He caught it. “Oh man, almost killed someone.”

“Ey…,” said a white guy walking by. He flashed finger guns at Lance. “Bruce Lee, huh?”

“Rest in peace,” Lance said, lowering his kama and head.

“Dude, can you do the throwing spinning thing again?” the guy said.

“Sure can.” Lance twirled and tossed and flowed through an improvised performance.

People gathered at the booth, some watching Lance, others going straight for the booth to find information.

A guy with a body fit for rugby asked Shiro about the club’s dealings with MMA, and a tiny girl who was probably a freshman asked Pidge if martial arts was harder when you were short. Pidge loudly proclaimed to have the strength to kick the nuts off a guy Shiro’s size. Hunk said it was true, and the jubilant laughter he produced drew in more people. A small group of Allura’s students dropped by to hear her spiel on the club, and Coran hooted (yes, hooted, like an owl) at his students as he spotted them. The hoots were like a rallying call. The students came over, suddenly remembering that their professor was a martial artist and immediately ten times cooler than before.

Keith was the only free body left. He hid behind the poster board and browsed through the news app on his phone. He would rather read about politics and contaminated water in third world countries than single himself out as the only club host remaining.

Why did everyone have to talk so much? After five minutes of forcing himself to deeply read news articles, Keith saw that Shiro was talking to four beefy guys (who seemed to be products of asexual reproduction; they looked like buzz-cut quadruplets), Hunk and Pidge were demonstrating wrist releases to a group of five people. Coran and Allura were still with their students. And Lance was teaching a girl how to twirl a kama. He was also flirting with her, talking lowly into her ear as though the low bustle of the fair would swallow up his words if he spoke from a distance. She giggled, then pulled back and twirled the kama slowly and choppily. Good for a beginner. Lance fist-bumped her, and she giggled again, twirling the kama again and again until she had the motion down.

“I should teach you more,” Lance said. “Come to the meeting.”

“Maybe,” the girl said, twirling the kama faster.

 “Natural talent, huh?” Lance said, cocking an eyebrow.

“Maybe.” The girl winked.

She had done this before. She was faking her inexperience.

It was enough to make Keith want to puke.

“Do you have a syllabus?” the girl asked.

“This isn’t a class,” Lance said in that guy-ish tone that Keith sincerely hated.

Why did boys have to use _that_ voice when they hit on girls? It was such a _white thing_ to do. So masculine and so very irritating and so fucking dumb why the fuck was Lance falling into the empty-headed douchebag jock trope?

If Keith were the girl he’d call Lance out. He deserved more than mediocre flirting. A variation of an advanced meme was better than stereotypical tough-guy speech. He’d even take a regular meme.

He put Lance’s flimsy excuse for flirting in the back of his thoughts by focusing on the Huffington Post article on Yellow Fever. It sounded like a legitimate illness until Keith read the definition. It was absurd. Disgusting. He instantly thought of his mother, and he felt sick. He read the short article, then Googled the phrase, and he read more about this Yellow Fever perversion. He branched into the Asexual Asian Man stereotype, and the anti-Asian men trends on dating sites.

These prejudices were so popular, they were titled.

Fuck this.

Keith cleared his browser history and put his phone in cloth-covered woven basket under the booth, where the team had placed their phones, wallets, keys, and portable charges. The cloth was heavy, and small bells were sewn into it so that every time someone disturbed it, it rang a warning to the others. Nobody would have their belonging stolen. But who would rob the martial arts club under their nose? Only a fellow martial artist—or someone with a weapon.

Lance’s kama glittered in his hands as he began another improvised weapons form. The girl was gone. She had left with a club pamphlet tucked into her bag. Keith could imagine Lance slipping it in, sensuality pouring from that simple action.

“Hiding?” said a smooth voice that teetered between familiar and alien.

“Kind of,” Keith said, then recognized the young man peering around the poster board. “Oh! You live on my floor.”

“A few doors down, across the hall.”

“You….” Keith couldn’t finish his sentence without feeling awkward. This was the guy who had stared at Keith’s bare legs in utter shock.

“I…?” The guy had dimples. Keith wanted to poke them.

“Your name is…?”

“Lotor.” He winced, as though he knew how strange his name sounded. _Low-torh_. “My parents are…you know. They wanted a unique name for a unique child.”

“I like it. It’s very…unique.” Keith chuckled at Lotor’s grimace. It must’ve been a common compliment or insult-disguised-as-a-compliment. “How do you spell it?”

“L-o-t-o-r.”

“Like motor.”

Another grimace told Keith that this was also a common response to his name.

“Does your name give you a hard time?” Keith asked.

“No. People give me a hard time.” Lotor’s eyes hardened and though they weren’t on Keith, he could well imagine how sharp they’d jab into him.

Keith backtracked. “Oh, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine. I get that a lot. All of what you said, actually.” Lotor’s icy blue eyes softened to a solemn acceptance.

“Sorry, sorry.” Keith couldn’t believe he was sucking this bad. “I’m trash.”

He hadn’t thought Lotor would admit to having a hard time. He didn’t look like someone who’d be bullied, even for a strange name that wasn’t _that_ bad. Lotor was handsome. As Lance would probably say, Lotor had pants-dropping beauty.

“I’m trash, too. Tae kwon do trash.” Lotor held up an informational pamphlet. Keith hadn’t seen him reach to grab it. “Is this open to drop-outs who want to get back in? It’s been two years since I trained so I’m out of shape.”

Laughter gathered in Keith’s throat. Lotor was _not_ out of shape.

“How long have you trained?” Keith asked.

“About five years.”

“Why’d you quit?”

Lotor didn’t step back, but Keith could see that he had retreated into himself.

“Personal reasons.”

Keith wouldn’t push. “Meetings are Wednesday nights, seven to nine, at the Black Lion Academy in downtown Altea. We provide weapons and pads, and the Academy has a discount rate for LU students if you want to take classes.”

“That’s one hell of a sales pitch.” Lotor stepped closer to the booth.

Keith blushed and shrugged. “You should come.”

“I think I will.” They shook hands. “Keith, right?”

“Yeah.” Keith wondered how he knew.

“Nice to officially meet you. By the way, your hair is fantastic.”

Keith self-consciously touched the hair draped on his shoulders.

“I’ve been thinking of cutting my hair but….” Lotor reached over his shoulder and brought forth a ponytailed ribbon of platinum blond hair. The ends draped well past his chest and almost brushed his waist. “New record.”

Keith leaned over the booth and ogled the silken strands. “How do you care for it?”

“I don’t do much, to be honest. More conditioning than shampooing. No hot showers, which used to be a pain but I’ve gotten used to it. Routine trims. No heat treatments. Minimal stuff. My mom’s a hair stylist, so she helps me out.”

If Keith knew how to take care of long hair, he’d go all out and grow his mullet out until he was just as elfish.

“I’ll see you in Mane.” Lotor left, slipping his lovely hair over his shoulder to curtain his back.

Not long later, Keith was visited by a girl who wanted to know about the Academy’s provided equipment. (Were the mats clean and patched? Were the pads old and flimsy? Were the weapons cheap and did the wooden sticks and staffs easily split?) Then a girl and her roommate (who roomed together because of their mutual interest in martial arts) asked about the club’s relationship to the Academy. (Were the discounts valuable? Did the Academy offer a variety of classes to accommodate for wonky college schedules? What were the lesson packages and how expensive were they?)

He answered the questions he could, and directed them to Allura and Coran for the more intensive ones. They had closer ties to the Academy so they knew more about the lesson packages than Keith did, which essentially was _everything_.

In the last thirty minutes of the fair, Lance put away his staff (his third weapon; the second being an escrima stick), and pulled Keith out from behind the booth.

Off to the side of the fair, they began their fighting set.

They started slow, pausing for several seconds between attacks and counters. A small crowd gathered, and when the Peanut Gallery arrived, aka four jocks whose boisterous comments about “hitting him with the chair” and “throwing a left to the family jewels” helped grow the crowd, Lance stepped back, shucked his shirt (to whistles and giggles), and reengaged with a flurry of punches and kicks.

Keith met Lance’s volcanic energy with explosive blocks and counters. Blocks doubled as strikes if used to _hit_ attacks out of the way. When Lance punched for Keith’s head, Keith knocked it aside with his forearm with such force that Lance winced. Keith swung his fist in a hammer strike, aiming to smash the top of Lance’s head with the bottom of his fist. Lance blocked with his forearm, angling it so that Keith’s attack slid off. Still, Keith struck hard enough to seed bruises in both their forearms.

“Left! Left! Left!” the Peanut Gallery chanted.

Keith swung a left hook for Lance’s jaw and when that was blocked, he swung his left foot for Lance’s ribs, and when that was blocked, he spun and jumped, swinging his heel for Lance’s face in midair.

The Peanut Gallery bellowed a low-voiced _OOOOOOHHHHHHHH_. Lance ducked into a roll and unfolded his leg to sweep at Keith’s. Keith jumped. The Peanut Gallery went wild.

They fought harder and faster. Keith tackled Lance to the ground and they grappled, legs and arms tangled as they sought out pressure points and ways to fold each other’s limbs into joint-locked positions.

The crowd moved as they covered ground and traveled far from the martial arts booth. They rolled away from each other, punched and kicked, then came back together to roll on the grass, dirt, and occasionally mud.

It was wonderfully filthy.

Keith’s stomach pitted at the strange joy of rolling with Lance on wet dirt and grass while people cheered them on. It was a gratifying emptiness that was more churning nothingness than anything else, like a whisk beating his stomach to pulp and never stopping to let it settle.

He wrestled Lance underneath him and straddled Lance’s hips. He applied a throat choke even as Lance tried bucking him off. He hooked his ankles under Lance’s knees and held on for the ride. It ended when Lance tapped out, signaling the end of their demonstration.

Keith patted Lance’s chest, still straddling his waist. “Nice job.”

Lance caught his hand and held it to his pounding heart. “You fucking owned me.”

Keith’s face warmed. He pulled Lance off the ground. They were streaked with mud and grass.

“That was as hot as a wet t-shirt contest,” said one of the jocks.

The audience (well over thirty bodies) laughed and whistled.

Lance cupped Keith’s elbow and whispered, “Take it off.”

Keith blushed.

“For the club,” Lance said, breath kissing Keith’s ear.

Keith peeled off his muddy shirt to whistles. His face was a bonfire.

Nearly half the crowd followed him and Keith to the martial arts booth. The team was swarmed with inquiries, and Keith and Lance were asked to pose in photos for the school website and newspaper, but were mostly approached for personal social media.

“Sweaty man burger,” a girl said, looping her arms around their waists and pulling them flush against her sides.

“Just like Hooters for women,” the photographer said in a thick country-bumpkin accent.

The fair ended with a trickle of people popping in to add their information to the sign-up sheets. When no more visitors came, Allura tallied the names that exceeded the hundred-line limit and proudly announced a hundred and twenty sign-ups. Allura estimated that less than thirty would become regulars, as most clubs didn’t exceed that limit. Service clubs tended to attract the largest memberships.

Keith still felt sick. Even five new members were too much. He could handle one or two. Maybe three if Lotor was included. He hardly knew the guy, but Lotor gave off good vibes, and his hair defied gender stereotypes. That had to be a sign of open-mindedness.

The club hosts began cleaning their booths and trash, and folding their tables and chairs for the campus staff to haul away.

Pidge happily wiped the stripped table down with disinfecting wipes.

“A bunch of people from Pride are coming next week,” Pidge said. Pride was LU’s LGBTQ club.

“You’ll have friends, then,” Keith said. He’d rather deal with newcomers from Pride than anywhere else.

“Not guaranteed, but there’s a better chance of not wanting to kill each other.”

“I like everyone who came,” Hunk said, unlocking the clamps on the table joints that kept it from folding in on itself. “Lots of nice people.”

“Shay.” Pidge snickered.

“Shut up.”

“Who’s Shay?” Keith asked.

“Shut up,” Hunk said, his voice blushing more than his dark cheeks. “Go bother Lance about Nyma.”

“Who’s Nyma?” Pidge asked Lance, who was carefully packing his weapons in his equipment bag.

“A junior who has a black belt in tae kwon do _and_ kung fu.” Lance smirked. “Majoring in English, minoring in Business, living off-campus in her mom’s luxury condo. It’s a couple blocks from the Academy. Somebody say par- _tay_.”

It was already happening. The newcomers were pushing Keith away before they arrived.

“Enough about her. Tell me about the mysterious Shay.” Lance suggestively whistled.

Keith slipped his muddy shirt back on and grabbed his wallet, keys, and phone from the woven basket and hurried away. He wanted someone to call him back, but they were probably too busy gushing about attractive newcomers that they didn’t notice. Nyma and Shay. Strange names, like Lotor.

Lotor.

Keith hadn’t written Lotor’s information down on the sheet. He messaged the group on GroupMe to add Lotor, last name unknown, to the list. They could look him up on the college directory located on the student home page. Even home addresses were listed there. Lance could find Nyma’s address with a single search. And if Hunk didn’t know where Shay was rooming, or if she lived on campus, he could find her info the same way.

He almost slammed his door into the wall when he entered his room. Thoughts of losing his friends to outsiders torpedoed in his head, heightening his anger. When the official meetings started his team would cast him aside, left in the dust. He looked at his muddy face in the mirror. He might as well bury himself in dirt. Hunk and Lance wouldn’t notice when they had their hands busy with pretty-faced newcomers. And Pidge would have his Pride friends. And Coran and Allura would have their students.

Keith had nobody.

Unless…Lotor was someone to befriend.

Yeah, Lotor was a possibility.

They could grow their hair together and Keith could help him remember all his tae kwon do techniques. Five years had a lot of material, and if Lotor was diligent he could have already earned his black belt. They could go over poomsae and Keith could teach him 2nd degree material.

Keith took a long shower to scrape off the mud dried in his hair on his skin. He coated himself in almond oil, waited for his skin to dry (while waiting for the itch between his legs to dry because he was _not_ doing that so early in the day), then dressed in loose clothing because he didn’t intend to go out at all until it was time for dinner.

For now he had fanfiction and manga to read and distract himself from reality.

#

VOLTRON SQUAD

 **Lance:** LOTOR SINCLINE? AKA TUMBLR FAMOUS “I’LL TAKE MY SHIRT OFF FOR THE NOTES” LOTOR SINCLINE? AKA KING-LOTOR??? AKA “LEGOLAS BUT TEN TIMES HOTTER”????

 **Shito:** He’s a nice guy.

 **Pidge:** Keith likes him

 **Hunk:** Yeah! They got along really well. And Keith was (((smiling))).

 **Pidge:** SMILING AT A STRANGER!! How weird is that?

 **Allura:** Weird? How about “sweet” or “heart-warming”?

 **Lance:** They interacted????

 **Coran:** Keith smiles at strangers. He’s just particular about who receives his brilliance.

 **Pidge:** If you weren’t busy flexing your biceps at random people you’d have noticed they were talking about the club.

 **Shito:** On another note, we need another group chat name. “TEAM VOLTRON” will be the chat name for the club.

 **Lance:** YOU CAN’T CHANGE OUR ORIGINS

 **Keith:** ORIGINS

 **Lance:** You were talking to Lotor??? How’d that happen????

 **Keith:** He asked about the club.

 **Lance:** You’re saying he just came up to the booth and talked to you? You didn’t catalyze it???

 **Pidge:** OMG you used a Grown Up ™ word!

 **Keith:** It’s not the first time we met. He a few doors down from me.

 **Hunk:** You’ve been hanging out with a pretty boy without telling us? L

 **Pidge:** Damn it, Hunk. I’d expect that from Lance, not you.

 **Hunk:** It’s funny because Keith was hiding behind the poster the whole time pretending to be on his phone. Then Lotor came and literally stuck his head around and started asking questions.

 **Allura:** If I may add, Lotor watched Keith for a while before he spoke (nearly a minute, I think!). He didn’t want to disturb Keith but he also really wanted to talk. It was cute!

 **Keith:** I wasn’t hiding. I was reading an article about Yellow Fever. It was very disturbing and I couldn’t stop reading.

 **Hunk:** Ew. Why? Gross things need to be left alone. Don’t water the weeds.

 **Coran:** You can’t ignore it. You have to kill it with poison.

 **Shito:** Can we change the topic, please?

 **Pidge:** Wait, Lotor has a Tumblr? And he takes his shirt off for notes? What does he do for follows? Heheheh. /:)

 **Shito:** That’s not what I meant.

 **Lance:** Wow, Pidge. I’d expect that from myself, not you

 **Shito:** I’m changing the chat name.

ORIGINS

 **Lance:** If Lotor comes, he can be our logo. A shirtless hot white guy doing a side kick to the head

 **Keith:** You don’t want to be the logo?

 **Lance:** Aw! :) I’m flattered you thought of my shirtless hot Latino body, but Lotor can put his hair in a high ponytail so we can crop out his body and use his silhouette. We can pretend he’s a stereotypical Korean man doing a high kick

 **Keith:** We should use you. Your fat ego will pump up the logo’s influence.

 **Allura:** Or “confidence” or “power” or “mastery”…. We can be nice to each other.

 **Coran:** Keith can be the logo. He has a beautiful side kick.

 **Shito:** Matt’s offering to put together a design portfolio for us. He has nothing better to do, “no offense.”

 **Lance:** You’re with Matt? Tell him to give Daisy kissies for me!! I LOVE HER SO MUCH

 **Pidge:** Go be a furry somewhere else

 **Keith:** What’s a furry?

 **Shito:** We are changing the topic right now.

 **Coran:** Shito, furry culture isn’t entirely like that.

 **Shito:** New topic: mid-terms

 **Pidge:** Pardon my French but that is the shittiest topic change in our entire chat history

 **Coran:** No, before we change topics, I want you all to understand that furry culture is NOT about what you think it is about.

 **Hunk:** All my midterms are essays. No exams. How crazy is that???

 **Lance:** I think I have half essays and half exams. But I might have a mini-exam for Composition. Kind of like a quiz but it’s weighted heavier. Some professors are douches

 **Coran:** Stubborn Millennials.

 **Lance:** Why are you so mean? :( My fragile millennial heart can’t take it

 **Allura:** Actually, I don’t think any of you, aside from Shiro, are Millennials. I believe the cutoff year is 1994. Those born afterwards are Gen Z.

 **Lance:** Really???? So I’m not a lazy, self-entitled prissy pants??? :0

 **Keith:** Nope. That’s still you.

 **Coran:** If there’s one thing to take from me tonight, it’s that furries are innocent.

 **Shito:** I’ll see you all next week at the first meeting. :) :) :)

 **Keith:** WHAT IS A FURRY?

 **Lance:** Go to Coran’s office and he’ll show you

 **Pidge:** BYE EVERYONE NICE CHATTING WITH YOU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if lotor is ever introduced in vld, let's assume he's his own character, non-problematic, and the age-equivalent of keith;  
> king-lotor is an actual tumblr. (wink wink)


	14. free bear hug

Avoiding the team was easier than it had been before. Perhaps this was because half the team he never saw on campus, and because Lance had stopped hounding Keith to hang out with him. Lance had also disappeared from the team chat to move into the club chat. Apparently he couldn’t hold two fronts at once. He had vanished from Keith’s text history as well, gone without a single meme or emoji. Keith stayed away from the club chat, unable to click the chat’s name on his GroupMe dash without feeling sick from the abandonment. Lance’s disappearance ushered in a brief period of quiet in which Keith tended to his midterm essays and the blossoming fears of abandonment in the privacy of his shrinking dorm room.

Without Lance’s constant distraction, Keith finished his essays and his study guides and his anime fanfiction. Though the walls squeezed in on him, he spent most his hours in his room, curled over the covers on his bunk as he browsed whatever crossed his mind on his phone, sometimes running out of thoughts and hovering his thumb over his screen as he waited for something to pop into his empty head. When thinking took too much effort and all he could visualize in his head was a black screen of nothing, he went to sleep. Sleep came easier when he expended all his energy on putting together thoughts just so he could have a reason to poke through his phone.

Wednesday afternoon saw a burst of energy in Keith’s mind, not entirely welcome; it stirred his anxiety into action, swirling behind his eyes in thick mist, overlaying his vision with a surreal distortion that made it impossible to stand straight. His alignment was off, like his car’s had been so long ago, when he took it for a drive and it wouldn’t stay in a straight line even though he held the steering wheel steady. Aunt Kazue’s tow truck friend had towed it to get serviced because Keith had been too anxious to drive it in himself.

Six o’clock came, and Keith’s phone buzzed with a text alert.

**(xxx) xxx-xxxx: Hi, is this Keith? I got your number from the directory. This is Lotor**

Keith responded in a jiff, bouncing up from his bunk. 

_Y_ **_eah! It’s me! Are you going to the club tonight?_ **

He clicked on Lotor’s phone number and added it to a new contact slot.

**I’m actually texting you about that, haha :D Do you want to carpool??**

Keith gaped, struck into silence. This had to be a sign from the friendship gods, spirits, whatever the higher friendship powers be.

**_Yeah! I can drive you._ **

**We can take my car. I just got it washed :P**

That was a better idea than taking Keith’s junky secondhand car. If Lotor was Keith’s only chance at a friendship among the newcomers, he needed to leave good impressions everywhere. His car was better kept a secret for now, as Lotor was probably thinking Keith drove a more recent model, like most of the student body.

**_Sure! What time do you want to leave? If you drive at the speed limit, it’s a ten minute drive._ **

Keith almost added a bit about the fastest travel time being nine minutes in traffic, thanks to Lance’s reckless driving, but he didn’t see how that would fit into the conversation.

**I have nothing to do, so we could go now**

A couple seconds later, Lotor sent another text.

**Not that I’m rushing you. We can go whenever you like ^^**

The carets were nothing special, but from a perspective friend, it was as much a sign as Lotor finding Keith’s number.

**_I’m not doing anything either. Let’s go._ **

Not a minute later, Lotor was standing in front of Keith’s open doorway. Keith looked him up, from his Nike shoes to his lightweight workout pants, to his fitted t-shirt, to his baggy hoodie, and to his ponytailed waterfall of frizzless hair. Lotor was someone Keith would expect to see laughing it up with Lance, checking out girls under the disguise of a wandering gaze, sneaking into local bars with the help of older friends.

Lotor gave Keith a similar checking out. “Haven’t changed yet?”

“You didn’t exactly give me time,” Keith teased as he went to his closet.

He pulled out workout clothes, disappointed that he wouldn’t have time to pick the perfect outfit for their first outing as potential friends, and quickly changed, aware of Lotor’s eyes straying to his bare legs. His legs prickled, like cold water had suddenly streamed down from his waist, raising goosebumps in its path.

“Don’t make fun of me,” Lotor said, eyes tracking Keith as he stomped his feet into his shoes and threw his wallet and keys and two water bottles--one for Lotor--into his drawstring bag.

“But…?” Keith said, slinging on the bag’s straps.

“I’m nervous.”

“About…?”

They stepped out and Keith locked up.

“Making an ass of myself because my form isn’t up to date,” Lotor said as they headed for the backlot.

“Like a computer that needs software updates?”

Lotor chuckled. “Watch me fall on my ass.”

“I’ll help you get back into the flow.”

“That’s very kind of you to offer.” Lotor tossed him a wink and bit the corner of his bottom lip.

The combo had a strange effect on his legs. They forgot how to work: one bending to reach the front and one staying behind for balance, only passing each other when one was in motion and the other was still. Keith did an awkward shuffle to Lotor’s politely hidden amusement.

“Where’s your car?” Keith asked, using verbal words to distract himself, and hopefully Lotor, from his embarrassing cha-cha walk.

Lotor pointed toward the western corner of the parking lot. “Next to the white Infiniti.”

“You’re a Camry guy, too?” Keith asked, feeling a new kinship with Lotor grow in his core.

Lotor was silent as Keith walked to the black Camry--too silent. Keith looked, and Lotor was standing shock still with a crooked smile and a key fob held lifelessly in his outstretched hand. He pressed a button on the fob, which was shaped strangely for a Toyota. The headlights on the car next to the Camry flashed. Not the Infiniti…. The cherry red Porsche.

#

Keith had ridden in a Porsche before. Most of his relatives were wealthy enough to afford luxury cars, but most didn’t because cars only lost value over time and were worthless when compared to real estate and stocks and bonds. He had never ridden in a Porsche driven by someone his age, let alone one _owned_ by someone his age; therefore, the short drive had a different feel.

He doubted Lotor bought the car with his own money. He wanted to ask, but he also didn’t, because if he was wrong and Lotor, somehow and against all odds, had bought the nearly six-figure car, then Keith was slacking off. If his father found out a fellow eighteen-year-old was making major income, he’d encourage Keith to fit a job alongside his full-time schedule, and he would only accept positions in the right engine, in companies that would provide Keith paths into finance or marketing or operations or something else worthy of bragging rights.

There wasn’t enough room in Keith’s schedule of courses and coursework and anxiety and--and that word that Lance had used once...that Keith was starting to think of more and more often because maybe it was growing into him after being rooted in his heart. - _he exited the car and stood in front of the academy’s closed back door-_ It was spreading, its roots tearing into his heart and then his blood vessels, infecting him until he couldn’t function--until he was curled in a ball on his bunk, helpless, unable to think, numb to everything except the bottomless pit of self-doubt fostered in his head. _-the door was unlocked but he couldn’t open it his hand stayed on the doorknob-_ There wasn’t anything to do about it. Filling up an endless hole was impossible.

Impossible.

Just like making enough money to buy a six-figure car. How many people succeeded in earning enough disposable income to comfortably buy something that will become ugly over time--knowing that it will depreciate and provide no benefit aside from an ego-boost and aesthetics? _\- “is it locked hey are you alright”-_ How many people made enough money to live in Silicon Valley? In the neighborhoods of CEOs and company presidents and directors? In zip codes where there was a luxury car parked on every block, where BMWs and Porsches and Teslas were common vehicles on the roads? _\- “keith you alright you don’t look good”-_ How many people made it this far?

Studies showed that children were likely to keep their parents’ socio-economic status, that the richer the parents were, the richer the children would be when they grew up. Keith leaned on the studies now, hoping that his family’s wealth predicted his future, but the studies assumed the kids were well in the head. _-he sat against the wall-_ They discounted those who became nauseous at the thought of losing friends who weren’t really friends, just kind people who took in stray dogs, and that was Keith, a stray dog, a boy who was barely surviving his first months in college because sleep eluded more often than it embraced him, _-put his head between his knees-_ because he couldn’t finish his midterm essays without kicking his desk, _\- “deep breaths”-_ because he was anxious over the stupidest things like Lance tossing him aside for new toys and that was what happened he’d been thrown out in replacement and that mud wrestling they’d done hadn’t meant anything to lance and now keith had to start over with lotor and forget about the rest of the team because they were going to dump him too and replace him with shay and nyma who he didn’t know but _knew they were a hundred times better than him at everything and he was a_ **_failure and his father wasn’t going to approve of anything he was doing because he wasn’t working toward a career and--_ **

He shook his head.

No.

Calm down. Deep breaths. He wasn’t hurting.

He was sitting against the back wall of the Academy, the door wasn’t opened, Lotor was squatting in front of him and talking to someone on his phone.

“...think it was a panic attack. He’s not passed out but he’s not responding.”

Keith suddenly felt the chill of night. Summer was quickly passing into fall.

“I’m okay,” Keith said, motioning for Lotor to hang up. He tried to show desperation in his eyes. “I’m truly okay now.”

He stood, rejecting Lotor’s offered hand for help, and gently swatted it aside when it hovered around Keith’s arm.

“Who’d you call?” Keith asked.

Lotor cupped his swatted hand. “A friend. His brother has an anxiety disorder, so I thought he could help.”

Keith looked away. “It’s locked. The door.”

“Do you want to go home?”

Home? What was home? Cupertino? His tiny dorm in tiny Mane Hall in tiny Leon University in tiny Altea?

“I’ll be fine.” Keith’s shoulders suddenly felt naked. His drawstring bag was still in the Porshe. He glanced at the car, shiny and red and perfect for a snooty rich kid. If he got back in he’d feel sick again. Every horrid thing festering in his mind would torpedo him in the gut. He couldn’t even stick a hand inside. He was done with the car for tonight. He’d take a ride to the dorms with Lance--

But Lance wasn’t there anymore. At least, not in his immediate circle of friends.

Friends.

Were they still friends?

Had they ever been friends?

“We should go around to the front,” Lotor said. “I don’t know why Shiro said to park in the back.”

“Were there spots up front?” Keith asked as they walked.

“I didn’t pay attention.”

They turned onto the front strip pavement. Most of the shops were in their final hours, few if any customers were visible through the decaled storefront windows. The Academy’s windows had a few “Best Rated” decals and tournament promotional posters, nothing directly advertising the program. It was humble, respectable, like Keith’s dojang. His grandmaster’s wizened face popped in his mind. When he went back, he’d tell all about Lance and their wacky martial arts adventures.

“You distracted me,” Lotor said as they stepped into the empty Academy.

“What do you mean?” Keith said.

“I mean you distracted me. I was driving on autopilot.”

“Your car has autopilot?”

“No, it--” Lotor cocked his head to the side. He suddenly chuckled. “I meant I wasn’t thinking when I came here because you were on my mind.”

Master Karen exploded out of her office, disheveled hair draped over her shoulders. Her wild eyes squinted at Lotor, then snapped to Keith.

“They’re already here?” she said. She looked into her office. “Don’t we start at seven? Am I off? Oh no.”

“You’re not,” Keith said. “We’re early.”

She sagged over, bracing her hands on her knees. She looked up at them. “Thank goodness. It’s my first time hosting for a club. I’m not in shape for this. Having non-trained persons on the mats is not good for stress. College students, too! Oh goodness. College students are reckless.”

“We’ll help,” Lotor said, putting a hand on Keith’s waist. “Does anything need to be prepped?”

“No!” Master Karen flung up her hands. “None! But I’m more stressed than I was watching the new trainees teach the kiddie classes.”

“Try to relax.” Lotor stored his Nike shoes under a spectator chair and tucked his leather wallet and keys inside. “ I’m sure Shiro and the club reps will take care of everything.”

Keith put his shoes next to Lotor’s.

“Didn’t you bring a bag?” Lotor asked.

“It’s in the car. I can get it later.”

They warmed up on the floor, Lotor asking Keith to lead him through the recommended stretches. Keith ran them through his dojang’s stretching routine, from legs to neck. They transitioned into kicks, starting with the basics and working through increasing difficulty. They moved quickly, from front kick to roundhouse kick to side kick to back kick to hook kick and were on wheel kick when someone knocked on the backdoor. Lotor went to open it.

“You’re catching up fast,” Keith said.

“Thanks to you, I’ll be back to normal in a blink.” Lotor opened the door and in came Lance and Shiro, both in their lightweight workout clothes.

The important bits of Lance’s skin were covered, namely, his upper thighs and shoulders. Biceps. Collarbones. Torso. He remembered that ridiculous tank top and booty shorts combo Lance had worn weeks ago. Remembered the dark skin underneath that peeked out when he stretched and did that impressive horse stance. Remembered the black boxer briefs that Keith absolutely detested. He detested the whole thing. The shirt, the shorts, the briefs.

Lance and Shiro put their waters and belongings on the walkway, against the wall.

“You’re here early,” Lance said, his narrowed gaze passing from Lotor to Keith, then to Lotor again. “Did you come together?”

“We carpooled,” Lotor said.

Lance’s smile twitched. “In...the Porsche?”

Lotor nodded.

“Must’ve been real nice,” Lance said to Keith, stepping onto the mat with Shiro.

“So, club president,” Lotor said as Shiro started stretching his arms. “What does attendance look like?”

“We’re packing,” Lance said, dropping into the splits. “Allura and Coran, the advisors, are coming in the last hour, but we have twenty confirmations from the regular members. Seven ‘maybe’s based on midterm studying. Six ‘no’s for this week. Next week is midterms so numbers will drop, but we’ve got it good.”

“Awesome,” Lotor said. “If you need any help with management, let me know. I’m more than happy to help.”

“Trooper Lotor,” Lance said.

Shiro shot a look down at Lance. He turned a welcoming smile onto Lotor. “I haven’t had the opportunity to meet you. I saw you at the fair, but you seemed quite occupied with Keith. What brings you here?”

“Occupied, huh?” Lance lowered his torso to the mats, stretching his arms in front.

Lotor’s eyebrow twitched. He lowered himself into the splits. Lance sucked at pretending not to notice. Keith stifled a laugh behind his pressed-together lips.

“It’s been years since I quit tae kwon do,” Lotor said. “I’m coming back swinging, and thanks to Keith I’m properly stretched out and ready to fight.”

Lance coughed a laugh into the crook of his elbow.

“Two years isn’t as long as you think,” Keith said.

“It is if he needs to be stretched out.” Lance’s eyes flashed with a realization. “It’s going to be pain getting out of that.”

Lotor curled his lips in contemplation and looked at his spread legs. “Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking.”

#

Hunk and Pidge arrived shortly before the first newcomers. The team--no, that wasn’t what they were anymore. They weren’t _the_ team. They were the club founders, leaders, reps--no longer a special squad. Lotor joined the welcome bandwagon, shaking hands and bumping fists with some of the tougher-looking guys. He kept glancing at Keith, and Keith kept ignoring. He didn’t want to be introduced to anyone. All he wanted was the original team to stick together and stake their land on one side of the mat, where nobody else could trespass.

Scanning each newcomer and deciding he didn’t like any of them, Keith stuck to the corner of the building, pacing himself through techniques as more bodies trickled onto the mats. He would bet fifty dollars that most of the idiots laughing and hovering around Shiro and Lance and Lotor had no experience with martial arts and were here for the “coolness” of kicking and punching and breaking things.

Lance cracked an awful pun about stretching out that earned him boos and laughter. Lotor called him a thief and smacked him a contagious high-five that got the others around them slapping his hands.

“Don’t encourage shitty puns,” Pidge said. “They’re not punny they’re punthetic.”

“BOO! YOU STINK,” Lance said into his cupped hands.

“I’m tired, okay?” Pidge said. “I don’t have enough energy to think about these things.”

Laughter everywhere. The mat got more crowded. Keith couldn’t see Lance through the gathered crowd.

Whatever. He was fine in his corner.

He worked through a traditional poomsae, slowing down to perfect his stances and the snap of his punches and kicks. Some people on the outside of the crowd watched him, their expressions blatantly showing their inexperience. Ignoring them was easy. He shifted into a creative poomsae, doing whatever technique came to his body. His mind had no part in crafting forms. Whatever felt right was the next move. A roundhouse into a wheel kick into a leg sweep. A punch to the temple into a punch to the throat into a punch to the kidneys.

“It’s you!” Lance said.

“It’s me!” a feminine voice said.

Keith turned, stepping out of his deep horse stance, and looked through a gap in the crowd at the blonde girl leaping into Lance’s arms.

“Everyone’s here,” Hunk shouted from the front of the mirrors. “Everyone sit in front of _moi_.” He struck the hunky pose he’d shown Keith at Safeway. Laughter and hoots went through the building.

Master Karen came out of nowhere and hooked her hand around Keith’s elbow.

“This is yours more than theirs,” she said, giving him a stern look as she pulled him to the outer shell of the club meeting. She pointed at the empty spot next to Lotor in the center of the seated crowd. In front of Lotor, Lance was seated between Pidge and the blonde. Shiro was in the front, diagonal to Hunk.

Master Karen patted Keith’s shoulder and went to stand at the front corner of the mirrors, arms folded at her back like a soldier on standby for orders.

“You alright?” Lotor asked when Keith sat next to him.

Keith nodded and pinned his eyes on Hunk, not the boy sitting a leg’s reach away. He wondered what Lance would do if nudged in the lower back by a foot. Would he assume it was an accident and scoot forward, his attention only for the friends at his sides and front? Lance didn’t look back once during Hunk’s introduction. He angled his head to speak with Pidge and the blonde, the corners of his eyes visible to Keith, but he never looked at Keith. Never twitched his eyes in Keith’s direction to acknowledge his existence.

Shiro went up to speak. Keith tried to get Hunk to meet his eyes as he stood off to the side, next to Master Karen. Hunk was focused on Shiro, who was talking about the club rules and the procedures for major injuries. A lull fell over the crowd at the latter.

Shiro said, “I don’t expect there to be any broken bones or blackout concussions, and I hope you’re the same--” Soft laughter at that. “--but it’s important to always be prepared.”

Master Karen stepped forward. “Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. That is all I have to add. Enjoy your stay. I’ll be in my office for any questions.”

“Don’t you want to introduce yourself?” Shiro asked as she walked away.

“No need. Have fun.” She threw up a half-assed wave to brief laughter.

“Alright then.” Shiro smiled. “Let’s get to the agenda.”

Keith completely zoned out.

Who cared?

#

Keith scowled at the broken up groups. Each had a different task: Pidge and Hunk teamed up to instruct five total newbies in basic stances; Shiro taught a different five-person group simple wrist releases; and Lance oversaw the ten people with at least some martial arts experience who wanted to be on their own. Of course, “on their own” meant hanging around Lance and Lotor and doing whatever techniques they wanted. Master Karen was probably sweating as she peered between the now open blinds of her office window.

On his own, the way he liked it, Keith continued piecing together a new poomsae. He didn’t remember the moves he’d selected before the introductory speech, but that didn’t matter; he wasn’t going to perform it again. It was an improv dance that started because he didn’t want to be the loser standing on the side, and continued because he liked distracting Lance from the blonde who was teaching him and Lotor a fast-paced technique against a right-hand punch.

“Keith, join us,” Lotor said.

Lance glanced at Lotor. “He likes being on his own.”

“Looks lonely to me.” Lotor side-eyed Lance. “He’s part of the club, too.”

The blonde bunched her lips to the side and gave Keith a look that probably was supposed to communicate something. Keith shrugged and joined.

“I’m Nyma,” the blonde said, shaking his hand.

“Lance says you have two black belts,” Keith said.

“Yeah, I do.” She didn’t seem particularly proud about them. “What were you doing over there? An open form? Looked pretty. Can you teach it or were you flowing it out?”

“Flowing it out. I haven’t really drafted one since I came here.”

“Not a lot of time, I get it.” Nyma sighed. “I’m an Honors student so my schedule is packed. Nights and weekends are really my only free time.”

Interest flashed in Lotor’s eyes. “I’m thinking of joining the Honors Program. How do I get on that?”

“There’s an informational meeting toward the end of the semester. Keep an eye on the event calendar on the homepage.”

Keith’s parents would want him to join. He’d want to join, if only for the feeling of being on an academic level above his classmates.

A girl came over and bumped Lance’s shoulder. “Can we take out the kicking pads?”

“Knock yourself out,” Lance said, pointing at the back wall shelf.

“Want to do padwork?” Lotor asked.

“Not now,” Lance said. “Nyma didn’t finish the spinning elbow thing.”

“Oh, I was talking to Keith.”

Lance smiled tightly. “My bad.”

“Not today,” Keith said, suddenly finding himself pinned in place by all their eyes.

“Grappling?” Lotor said.

Nyma coughed--or laughed. Keith couldn’t tell. Lance’s expression was equally confusing. He was either amused or horrified. Keith didn’t know what he preferred.

Lotor laughed. “Kidding. I’m kidding. There’s too many people around.”

“We have room,” Keith said, skin tingling at the prospect of rolling on the mats, limbs entangled as they fought to pin the other to the ground.

“How about we do poomsae?” Lance said.

“I thought you wanted me to teach you?” Nyma said, cocking a brow.

“We don’t have to do the same thing,” Lotor said. “Keith and I can grapple--”

“No,” Lance said. “No grappling.”

Nyma’s casual smile vanished in a second.

“Why not?” Lotor said. Then much slowly, “We’ve grappled before.”

Something like hurt crossed Lance’s face.

“No we haven’t,” Keith quickly said. “We haven’t done anything.”

“I meant we’re trained in grappling,” Lotor said. “We’re not fumbling in the dark.”

Lance stepped at him, fists clenched.

“Okay, guys,” Nyma said, stepping between them, hand on Lance’s chest. “Step away and take deep breaths.”

“You don’t need to worry,” Lotor said to Lance, his voice sweet and sour. “I’m a nice guy. I always submit slow and smooth.”

“Watch your mouth,” Lance said, pushing against Nyma’s hand.

“Knock it off,” she said, though her hardened eyes were on Lotor.

Keith shrunk back, noticing a few heads had turned to watch the growing tension.

“You’re a lot of fun,” Lotor said. “A _lot_.” He walked toward the back door, the tension still tense between him and Lance, like a slinky stretching until it--

Lance knocked Nyma’s restraining hand away with his forearm and stormed to Lotor.

\--snapped.

“Lance,” Nyma shouted.

That was it. The whole building was looking at them. Master Karen stepped out of her office, eyes immediately on target.

Lance slung an arm over Lotor’s shoulder, pulling him along to the back door and said, “Let’s talk, buddy.”

Lotor went along with Lance, the tension in his shoulders slumping.

“Keith,” Nyma said. “Any idea what’s going on?”

“I’m as lost as you,” Keith said.

Lance and Lotor went out. The building was silent.

“Shiro, with me,” Master Karen said, striding across the floor to the back, parting the bodies in her way like Moses and the Red Sea.

They left and the mats exploded with commotion.

“Dude, they were _this close_ to scrapping.”

“Anyone know what the fuck happened?”

“Damn! I thought they were friends.”

“So close to seeing black belts fight.”

“Please return to your groups,” Pidge said. “Act normal. Please. I’m begging.” Then in a lower, desperate voice, “We can’t go to shit on the first day.”

A few seconds passed in which people looked and murmured among each other, in which Keith feared nobody would listen. Then two people returned to where Hunk and Pidge’s group had been, and started reviewing their learned stances. A few people moved near Nyma and Keith and did a few half-effort kicks. The others lingering around trickled back to their groups, some guessing at what had driven a spike between Lance and Lotor.

The two guys had seemed fine at the start of the meeting. At the very beginning there had been a little tension, but then Lotor had done a complete splits and earned the good side of Lance’s attention.

“What set them off?” Keith asked Nyma.

She shrugged, but her steady gaze at the back door made him think she had a strong feeling about the catalyst’s nature. After a sigh, she said, “I can show you the technique I was teaching them before they regressed to ten-year-old brats.”

Keith smiled. “Please do.”

“In exchange, you teach me something new. Tit-for-tat without the negative connotation.”

“I’d love that,” he said.

She laughed. “Love, huh?”

His cheeks warmed. He looked at the dividing line between two pieces of the mats.

“You’re very likeable,” she said.

Keith didn’t think so, but Nyma’s voice was the sort that made compliments impossible to challenge.

“This technique’s called Dancing Elbows. It’s traditionally taught against the right-hand punch, but it also works with the left hand. I’ll show it fast, then I’ll break it down.”

Nyma moved and Keith watched, forgetting about Lotor and Lance and Shiro and Master Karen.

#

They rejoined the club a couple minutes after Keith got down Dancing Elbows on both sides. He was teaching Nyma a wrist release technique his grandmaster had taught him after earning his black belt. It was a short but quick string of close-range body strikes that only worked if each strike landed in the correct spot.

“We’re back,” Lance said, joining Keith and Nyma and ignoring the curious looks people gave him.

Lotor was behind him, looking completely at ease as he returned people’s glances with smiles.

Keith looked at Shiro and Master Karen, but their faces didn’t give away much. Shiro was having a grand time talking with his group, and Master Karen was scanning the mats with a strict eye. She wouldn’t be letting any bad behavior get past.

“What’re we learning, teacher?” Lotor asked Keith.

“A wrist release.”

Keith put Nyma’s hand on his wrist and demonstrated slowly, then quickly. He never struck Nyma, but he came close enough to stir the blonde strands that hung out of her ponytail and next to her cheeks.

Lotor and Lance round-robined the attack and defense. They moved with violent intention but to Keith’s immense relief, never landed the strikes. Nyma did the defense on Keith a few times, nailing down the pattern after a few applications.

At eight, Allura and Coran entered the building and were introduced by Shiro. Lotor slipped out the front door when Shiro called for an applause in the light of the advisors’ hard work put into making the club a reality.

Keith slipped out, albeit less quietly, and got a few heads turned his way.

“Hey, Lotor,” he said, jogging to Lotor’s side. “Where are you going?”

Lotor smiled. “To get the waters in your bag.”

“But your keys are inside.”

Lotor froze in his steps. “Darn. You’re right.”

“Your shoes are there, too.”

Lotor looked down at his bare feet. “Looks like two years isn’t enough to erase my habits.”

“You went barefoot outside your dojang?”

“Most of the time, yeah. I have thick soles from it.” Lotor held up his foot to show off the rough skin dimly illuminated under the glow of a storefront sign.

Keith looked at his own bare feet. “Your habits are rubbing onto me.”

They smiled at each other.

“I’ll grab the keys and your shoes,” Lotor said.

“No, just grab your keys. I’ll let my feet toughen up.”

They looked at Keith’s feet and Keith wondered if his feet were strange-looking in the dark.

Lotor chuckled and smiled at Keith, shaking his head as though Keith was unbelievable. It was flattering, and Keith wondered why while Lotor dashed in and out of the Academy.

They walked around to the employee lot, going slow for Keith’s tender feet. Lotor called them _newborn_. Keith liked that.

After they got the bag, Lotor suggested they go through the back door because they could hear the murmur of kiyaps and chattering, so the speeches were done. Keith pointed at his feet, and Lotor laughed. They went the long way.

As they walked the short corner to the front, Lotor said, “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

Shocked, Keith looked up at Lotor’s shadowed face. “Not at all.”

“That’s good.”

“Why? Is it because of what happened with Lance?”

Lotor nodded. “Sometimes I come off as too direct, too intense.”

“No, you don’t. You’re fine.”

“Is it too intense if I say I want to protect you?”

Blindsided, Keith could only blink and run the words through his head.

“Tell me if it’s weird, but I feel…” Lotor tilted his head and regarded Keith with curiosity. “I’ve never met someone like you.”

It wasn’t flattery when he said it like that, in a small, curious voice. It was a truth so strange, it took his voice away. Keith understood. He’d experienced something similar with Lance, but more in a _he’s so crazy I can’t believe this_.

His mind conjured a memory of sparring with Lance at the Involvement Fair and grappling in the mud. He had felt something in his bones. Powerful and new. Not entirely like the feeling Lotor gave him. It had been more raw, more natural.

“We should go inside,” Lotor said.

Keith nodded and followed him in.

Lance was the first to see them, and the look on his face--the tiny smile he gave and the absence of laughter crinkles around his eyes--made Keith halt in his steps for a second.

Lotor and Lance wouldn’t be friends after tonight. Keith already knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait. life happened.   
> how many of you are still here? lol  
> this was a long hiatus, but i blame that on the previous chapter being #13


	15. middle-knuckle punch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to aestover (ao3)/s-tover (tumblr) for giving me life;  
> Mithzel for cheering me up;  
> and all you readers for leaving kudos and comments even tho this hasn't updated in 2.5 months

Keith stared at his reflection in the vanity mirror. His hair had struck puberty during midterms, growing fast and long despite the split ends that he made worse by peeling the forked ends until one broke off. Now that his essays were turned in, and his exams completed, his mind was freed from its shackles. No homework, no new course material, no nothing for the rest of today. The martial arts club was meeting tonight, but attendance was expected to be thin because some midterm projects weren’t due until Thursday or Friday, and of course people were cramming into Wednesday’s late hours.

He twirled a wavy strand of hair around his finger. Now his thoughts were free to worry about other things, like his appearance, which he feared he was starting to obsess over. Daily, he checked his face for blemishes, dark shadows, dry patches, and his hair for frizz and rogue strands. Then he checked his clothes, picking combinations of shoes and pants and shirts and sweaters that went together, but not so much that he looked like he was desperately trying to fit into the fashion crowd.

It was Lotor’s fault. But maybe that wasn’t a bad thing, feeling like he had to keep an eye on his skin and hair and clothes to maintain a friendship with a boy who was pretty enough to be a model. They had been hanging out over the last week, sporadically, when they happened out their dorms and into the hall at the same time, and when their paths crossed in the campus’s main halls, which happened so often Keith was tempted to call their meetings _frequent_ and not _sporadic._ But _frequent_ sounded strange, uncomfortable, and he couldn’t identify why--or why he didn’t want to identify why.

He enjoyed Lotor’s company, and the warmth that radiated in his chest whenever they shared smiles and waves and laughs. Sometimes Lotor was with a friend or two or three, and they were nice, though not Keith’s type; if they were puzzle pieces, they didn’t fit right with him. Their words weren’t empty shells of kindness, but something was lacking to keep them slotted together.

Keith chewed his lip, then stopped, not wanting to worry open the dry patch that was starting to peel open. Should he maintain his mullet or let it grow out? Or cut it all off and be a normal face in the crowd?

Someone knocked on his door.

He answered, expecting Lotor, and receiving Lance.

“Oh, it’s you,” Keith said.

“Oh, it’s me.” It wasn’t rude. Wasn’t kind. Wasn’t neutral. Keith didn’t know what it was.

“Midterms are over,” Lance said.

“Not entirely,” Keith said.

“For you and me they are.” Lance wouldn’t step inside. He stayed in the doorway. Keith gestured for him to come in. He shook his head. “Gotta leave soon. Stuff to do, ya know.”

Keith didn’t expect that to hurt. It stung and throbbed, like a bee had left its stinger in his stomach. He propped the door open with the beat-up door stopper he had found tucked under his desk while vacuuming last weekend.

“We didn’t talk much about it,” Lance said, “but I’m spending break at my place in Fremont. You’re invited to stay over. Eat with my family. Play with my dogs. Sleep in my room.” The words were friendly, the tone was stale.

“That’s nice, but I was planning on staying here.”

Lance cocked his head. He looked offended. “Why? Campus will be dead. You’ll have to go off campus for food with the cafeteria closed.”

“I like the quiet. It’s calming.”

“Riiight.” Lance moved a little closer. Keith wished he would come inside. “You’re an introvert. I get it. But Mr. Legolas is also staying on campus, and you two are the only peeps on this floor who are staying.”

Anger began a slow and firm tempo in Keith’s chest. Staring into Lance’s hardened eyes made it stronger. “His name is Lotor, and he lives twenty minutes from here. There’s no point in going home.”

“You’re hanging out over break.”

“Yes, we are.”

“Keith….” Lance’s probing expression crumbled into exasperation. “Listen before you get pissy, okay?”

Keith nodded, already getting pissy, but Lance must’ve known that.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with Lotor, and that’s great. It’s awesome you have a friend.” Lance’s eyes dipped. They caught on the low cut of Keith’s white V-shirt. It was paired with a casual denim jacket he had received from his mom on Christmas, and destroyed blue jeans that showed slithers of Keith’s knees and lower thighs. “And I love your newfound style. It’s sexy and conservative at the same time, something I fail at everyday.”

All the anger drained out of Keith at once. He said, “Sexy?”

“You weren’t going for that?” Lance snapped his fingers. “Darn.”

Keith’s lips tingled. He wanted to smile. “I look sexy?”

Lance shrugged. His cheeks looked warm. “According to societal standards, yes.”

Keith glanced at his reflection in the vanity mirror. He didn’t think he looked sexy.

“What standards?” he said.

“Uh, well….” Lance lifted his finger just enough to indicate Keith’s pants. “Your skin’s peaking through. And….” He pointed for a second at Keith’s torso. “If you had boobs you’d be flashing cleavage.”

The shirt wasn’t cut _that_ low.

“Is this supposed to piss me off?” Keith said.

“Huh?”

“You calling me sexy.”

Lance didn’t seem to understand. Then he said, “Oh! Yeah. It was that. You sexy beast.”

Keith couldn’t hold it in. His tingling lips needed to spread. So he smiled and laughed. Lance watched him with a funny smile that twitched with uncertainty, so he covered his mouth.

“You think I’m sexy?” Keith said. He toyed with the hem of his jacket.

Lance smiled. He looked Keith over once. “Not anymore.”

“Now I’m ugly?” Keith bit his lip, trying to shrink his smile, which felt like it was so large he must’ve looked like a Jack O'Lantern.

“Nah, you’re more cute.” Lance tipped his head to the doorframe, and Keith belatedly realized that Lance was doing the flirting pose he had seen so many times in high school: hands in pockets, shoulder and hip propped against the wall, head tipped toward or against the wall, legs crossed, and body relaxed with lazy confidence.

Lance couldn’t be flirting. He was a naturally flirty person. There wasn’t any reason he’d find Keith attractive. Sometimes friends flirted with each other for fun. This had to be that.

Keith couldn’t cool the warmth in his face. “According to societal standards?”

“Also according to me.” Lance winked. “Also, you’ve got apples in your cheeks.”

Keith touched his cheeks and barely registered their heat.

“You’re smiling a lot,” Lance said.

Keith covered his mouth, unable to stop smiling, and wondered if something was in his teeth despite having brushed them a while ago.

“You have a nice smile,” Lance said.

“Shut up.” Keith tried to stop smiling by chomping down on his lip, but his mouth still stretched wide behind his hands.

“Dude, why’re you so smiley today?”

“Don’t you have stuff to do?”

Lance’s smile lost its spark. “I should go, huh?”

“You said you have stuff to do.” Bitterness doused Keith’s smile. He dropped his hands to his sides. “Ya know?”

“Ouch, okay. That was a douchey thing to say, I know.” Lance stared at his toes. “I lied about the pissy thing. It wasn’t about calling you sexy. It was about Lotor.” He uncrossed his legs and pushed off the doorframe with his shoulder. His hands stayed in their pockets. “Lotor’s attracted to you. He…you know. That’s why he was pushing the grappling thing. It was pervy and you didn’t look comfortable so I thought I’d step in. Shiro and Master Karen thought I was exaggerating because of jealousy.” Lance looked up, checked Keith’s expression, then returned his gaze to his toes. “Obviously it’s your choice, what you want to do. I don’t think Lotor’s a good person to be around, but if you’re comfortable around him and you like him, it’s your choice. I just-- I don’t want to see you hurt if he tries anything.”

If Lance thought Keith would get pissed over an attempt to keep him safe, he wasn’t wrong--or right. Keith didn’t need Lance to hold his hand like he did during their memeducation meetings. He wasn’t a babe in the woods. He wasn’t a child. He wasn’t needy. But he knew Lance well enough to tell the concern was genuine, and it softened the prickle of his irritation at being seen as helpless.

And Lotor didn’t like Keith in that way anymore than Lance did. Lance flirted because he was Lance and that was a Lance thing to do. Lotor hadn’t done anything flirty or romantic with Keith. Lance _was_ exaggerating the grappling comments. He was reading too far into signals that weren’t there, like Keith had with Lance’s flirting.

Keith said, “He told me to say if I was ever uncomfortable.”

“That’s good.” The words didn’t go with the heaviness in Lance’s eyes.

“You don’t trust him?”

“I’d be very careful,” Lance said.

Did he think Keith was stupid? Keith wasn’t going to throw caution to the air--whatever that saying was--and he didn’t need Lance warning him every step of the way.

“Thanks for the warning,” Keith said, and stooped to remove the rubber stopper from underneath the door.

“You’re not obligated to do anything,” Lance said.

Keith held the door back from swinging into the Lance’s solemn face.

“I’m not stupid,” Keith said, acid sizzling in his final word.

“Neither am I, but when you’re in the moment it gets harder to walk away. If you ever feel the slightest discomfort, leave.”

“If that were true, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

Lance’s eyebrows dipped together. “Did Lotor try something?”

“You. I’m talking about you.”

Lance stuck his foot out to stop Keith from closing the door. “When?”

“Since the beginning.” Keith pushed on the door.

Lance pushed back. “I make you uncomfortable?”

“You barged in before I ever knew you. You refused to leave. You attacked me multiple times to see if I was a ‘real’ martial artist. You wore that stupid Pepe outfit and flashed your thighs knowing I’d hate it--”

Lance shoved hard, forcing Keith and door back. “Liar. You liked it. I saw you looking up my shorts every chance you got.”

“You’re delusional. I wanted to burn them.”

Keith stepped completely behind the door and leaned into it, overwhelming Lance and forcing him back a few steps. The door was open just enough for Lance to slip in. Keith wanted the gap gone. He put all his strength into the push, arms straining against Lance’s increasing strength.

“The shirt and briefs too, right?” Lance said.

“All of it.”

“I’ll bet, you thirsty bastard.”

Lance was too strong. Keith was too strong. They couldn’t defeat each other. Two forces couldn’t cancel each other, not in martial arts. Not in door pushing.

“I hate you,” Keith said.

Suddenly, Keith was the only one pushing. The door slammed shut. Keith went with it.

The force crumpled him against the door. He turned his cheek just in time to avoid crushing his nose. His breath exploded from his lungs in a gasped “FUCK.” His teeth had cut his gums, and then his lip, and now he was bleeding and his left wrist was throbbing though it hadn’t twisted the wrong way.

He surged to his feet and yanked open the door.

The hall was empty.

#

ORIGINS

 **Lance:** I’m heading home tonight instead of tomorrow morning. Something came up. See ya’ll next week

 **Hunk:** Is everything alright????

 **Lance:** Yah I just miss my family

 **Allura:** Have a nice break!! :)

 **Shiro:** Could you leave a message in the club chat as well?

 **Lance:** Sure. Just did.

 **Keith:** I’m coming but I’m not participating. Is that okay?

 **Pidge:** Same. I’m working on a midterm project

 **Keith:** I’m done with midterms.

 **Pidge:** <.< Lucky you

 **Keith:** Not really. I ran into a door.

 **Hunk:**??????????????????????

 **Pidge:** $50 it’s because of Lance

 **Allura:** Are you injured?

 **Keith:** I don’t need medical help.

 **Shiro:** You’re hurt enough that you can’t participate. What are your injuries?

 **Keith:** Cut lip and gums. Bruised knees. Rolled wrist.

 **Pidge:** Yikes

 **Allura:** It might be best to stay home and rest.

 **Hunk:** Was this in Einstein?? Lab doors are frickin brutal.

 **Keith:** It was my door.

 **Pidge:** Because of Lance

 **Allura:** Oh dear. What happened this time?

 **Shiro:** You two

 **Pidge:** He didn’t finish his sentence. Uh oh

 **Keith:** It wasn’t Lance. I literally walked into my door. Not everything is about him.

 **Shiro:** Still, the three of us are going to talk after break.

 **Keith:** I’ll run away.

 **Pidge:** Remember when we had that heart-to-heart talk outside the academy and I told you the thing about your dramatics

 **Pidge:** That’s applying right now

 **Pidge:** Cool it boy

 **Hunk:** I sensed 2 lbs of sass and a .5 lbs of sarcasm. He wasn’t serious.

 **Allura:** Regardless, I agree with Shiro. Next week will be another talk. It will be a sit down meeting in my office. Coran and I will facilitate. There will be no absences.

 **Coran:** You lot are speeding my aging. I certainly will you see the three of you.

 **Pidge:** Sounds like Shiro’s getting a punishment too

 **Coran:** Do not try me.

#

Lance didn’t show up to the martial arts meeting. Keith hadn’t expected him to go back on his word, especially after he stayed silent when Keith brought up his painful souvenirs from their last fight. Their relationship always dissolved into violence, sometimes physical, sometimes verbal, but always harmful.

Maybe they should stay apart, he thought as he sat against the wall and watched the club go through its routine of stretches, warmups, then material. Nobody asked why he was sitting out, though everyone gave him at least one curious look. He didn’t wear a wrist brace or hold an ice pack to his face, and his bruises weren’t showing yet. The fresh scab on his lip was noticeable from a distance, but everybody got bloody lips. He looked fine.

Only the original team and Lotor knew about Keith’s wrist, but Lotor’s understanding was that Keith had twinged it while walking into his door. At the same time, Keith had cut his dry lip on his teeth.

Though he was the one with the bruised knees and scabbed lips and tweaked wrist, he felt he owed Lance an apology.

He probed the tender scab with his tongue.

“Don’t touch it,” Lotor said, coming over from the small group of experienced martial artists practicing aerial kicks. Sweat dampened his cotton shirt and plastered loose strands of platinum hair to his face. “You’ll reopen it and it’ll scab.”

Keith bit his lip out of playful spite. He felt warm wetness. His lip was bleeding again.

“Your lips are scarred enough,” Lotor said, sinking to sit next to Keith. He rested his back against the mirror. “Twenty-four people the night before break. That’s amazing.”

“We might have less next week.”

Lotor bumped knees with Keith, narrowly missing a growing bruise. “Let’s be optimistic, okay?”

They watched Nyma pull off a string of butterfly kicks without pause. After the sixth kick, she wobbled over to Pidge’s group, who were reviewing the finer details of the front kick: setting the knee at the target, extending the kick without bobbing the knee, and keeping the upper body relaxed throughout the kick. The remaining three members of Lotor’s group transitioned into running kicks. Shiro yelled across the floor to remind them of their limited spacing.

Shiro was overseeing the newbie group and reviewing the basic stances they had learned from Pidge and Hunk last week. Allura and Coran traveled from group to group, mingling with students and imparting some of their wisdom. Hunk also traveled between groups, more for conversation than martial arts. He challenged a few people to stance battles, in which he and the opponent stood in their lowest stances for as long as they could. Hunk won most the matches.

“You’re smart to sit out,” Lotor said. “Even if it’s a small sprain, you don’t want to irritate it.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Keith said.

It wasn’t just that. It didn’t feel right to participate after the door-shoving match. Maybe Lance really did leave early for family happenings. Maybe he left because he didn’t want to see Keith’s face after those three terrible words.

“Do you have any projects due tomorrow or Friday?” Lotor said.

“No, I’m done.”

“Good.”

Someone thudded to the mats. A cheer rose from Pidge’s group. Allura had leg sweeped Coran. She joked about his old age as she pulled him up.

“Want to watch a movie tonight?” Lotor said. “My roommate is gone for break we have the TV to ourselves.”

Lance would want Keith to turn him down.

Keith met Lotor’s smile with a grin.

Lance wasn’t Keith’s keeper.

After the meet, they stayed behind with several others to clean the _dojang_. The taller people wiped the mirrors and windows, and the shorter people wiped the mats and swept the floor. Keith didn’t do much because of his wrist. He used his right hand to spritz cleaning fluid on the mirrors and windows. He wiped away the leftover streaks. Lotor reached above his head to get the ones that were slightly out of reach, sometimes standing on his toes and brushing their bodies together.

#

Back at Mane, Keith and Lotor split to take showers and dress comfy for the movie. Keith thoroughly soaped and groomed himself in and out of the shower. He brushed and flossed his teeth, cleaned his ears, cut his nails, rubbed almond oil into his arms and legs. He dressed in warm sweats, a thick and baggy t-shirt, and threw on an oversized sweater.

He stashed his keys and wallet and phone in his drawstring bag and headed to Lotor’s room. Lotor answered almost immediately, dressed in low-hanging sweat pants and a large Golden State Warriors t-shirt.

“We’re up here.” Lotor pointed to the top bunk, where navy bedsheets and pillows awaited. “Set the pillows against the headboard. I’ll set up Netflix.”

Keith slipped off his sandals and climbed to the top. The layout was similar to Lance’s room, but the difference in decor made it entirely different. Nothing decorated the walls. No posters no stickers. Both desks were startlingly empty, only covered by textbooks and office supplies. He couldn’t tell what Lotor and his roommate did for fun aside from use their laptops and watch TV.

“What are you in the mood for?” Lotor said.

“I don’t mind.”

“Horror?”

“Maybe not that.”

“Anime?”

“You like anime?” Keith sat against the crown of pillows he’d made.

“I had a major anime phase in high school. I’m a casual fan now.”

“Casual.” Keith tried out a smirk. It felt good.

“Here, let’s watch _One Punch Man_.” Lotor started the first episode. “It’s pretty wild.”  He joined Keith, plopping next to him on the bunk. There wasn’t much room, so they were pressed arm-to-arm and thigh-to-thigh. “And the characters are hot.”

“Shut up.”

“The characters are hot.”

They watched the first episode, trading remarks about the characters and the bizarre lobster. As the second episode started, Lotor’s hand brushed against Keith’s thigh. Keith’s stomach suddenly was host to a swarm of butterflies. Lotor’s fingers shifted to inside of Keith’s thigh. The butterflies floated to Keith’s groin.

Something colorful was happening on screen, but Keith couldn’t focus on anything but the fingers traveling to the apex of his thighs. The fingers brushed against him. His breath shortened. Just as suddenly, the fingers disappeared. They stayed away for the rest of the night.

Keith left after the third episode, when he was starting to doze off against Lotor’s shoulder. He felt empty as he walked into his room and climbed under his blankets. The ghost of Lotor’s fingers tickled his thigh until he fell asleep.

In his dreams, he and Lance were pushing against the door again. This time, Keith stepped away from the door, and Lance slammed the door open and bounced off. _I hate you_ , Keith said. Clear blood streamed from Lance’s eyes. He rubbed at them, lips quivering though they were tightly pressed together. _I hate you,_ Keith’s voice said. His mouth wasn’t moving. He was grinding his teeth and shoving Lance outside. Lance’s eyes bled.

Keith woke with his face pressed to a soaked pillow. He touched the dried tears on his cheeks.

Lance hadn’t been bleeding. He’d been crying.

Keith had to apologize. He needed to do it in person but Fremont was almost two and a half hours from Altea, and he didn’t have Lance’s address. He could ask Hunk, but even if he made the long drive, Lance might turn him away.

He’d call then. He held his breath as he dialed. He breathed slowly as he waited for the dial tone to end with a smooth voice or monotone voicemail bot. The call cut off. Keith’s screen boasted of the short dial tone. There must’ve been a glitch. He called again. The dial tone had barely started when the call cut off.

“Oh,” Keith said. It wasn’t a glitch.

Lance was rejecting his calls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for waiting for me.  
> i'm working on 2 manuscripts, the voltron bang, and now i'm writing a piece for a zine. plus there's school. i'm dying, scoob.
> 
> ((i'm still looking for betas for one of my mss. i especially need feedback for the last half. you can read the ms and leave 1 paragraph of feedback at the end. mssg me for details.))


	16. non-aggressive stance

Keith called Lance five times; he was ignored five times.

He should have spread them out through the day: morning, afternoon, and evening. But desperate as he was to hear that sunny voice, he couldn’t keep his thumb from continually pressing the red missed call entry on his phone’s Recents list.

He should have left a voicemail after his third dose of rolling dial tones, saying he didn’t mean it, never would, and pretty please could they talk about it because Lance didn’t deserve that four letter word Keith had thrown out so carelessly. Keith didn’t feel an ounce of hatred toward Lance. If he did, why did his guts feel so twisted and why did his head swim at the thought of Lance never forgiving him? Why did his stomach pit every time he imagined never standing on the receiving end of Lance’s cocky smile?

Confident knocks on his door drew him out of his funk. That would be Lotor, the only person on campus who’d bother with him.

“Hold on,” he said, voice trembling just a bit.

His socks slipped on the way down his bunk’s ladder and he banged his knee on a rung. Ignoring the throb, he checked his face in the mirror. He hadn’t cried, but his puffy eyes said otherwise. And his oily face and matted hair said he had spent the entire morning in his room, unwashed and unchanged.

The knocks sounded again.

“Sorry,” he said.

Somehow the three steps from his mirror to the door made him feel worse. His shirt was damp with cold sweat and his tangled hair was plastered to his face and neck. He didn’t hate Lance. He couldn’t if this was his reaction to five missed calls.

“Shit,” Lotor said when Keith opened the door. He stepped inside without invitation, forcing Keith farther in to keep their chests from bumping. The door closed behind them, the resounding click reminding Keith of yesterday.

Lotor reached for Keith’s arm. “What happened?”

Keith brushed Lotor’s hand aside. He didn’t need to be consoled. He needed to be forgiven.

“Hey, you can talk to me,” Lotor said.

“Lance isn’t,” Keith said, meeting Lotor’s confused gaze. “He’s ignoring my calls.”

“What a bastard.” Lotor reached into the depths of his shorts’ pocket and pulled out his phone. “I’ll call him for you.”

Keith hadn’t expected Lotor to help, given his fight with Lance, but he welcomed the surprising gesture.

“What’s his number?” Lotor said.

Keith fetched his phone from his desk. He recited the numbers. A thrill went through him. He felt as though he was taking part in a prank. In a way, it was. Lance would be answering a random phone number, completely unprepared for Keith’s voice.

Lotor dialed the number, then handed over the phone. He hadn’t press the green call button yet.

Keith stared at it. Seconds passed. He steeled himself and called.

The dial tone rang out to voicemail. A second later, Lance texted,  **Who is this**

“Tell him it’s me,” Lotor said.

Keith sent,  **_Lotor_ **

The conversation bubble immediately popped up. Lance typed fast. A second later, Keith showed Lotor the response:  **What you want**

“What you want,” Lotor mimicked in a voice that clearly was an imitation of a Black man. Then, seeing Keith’s uncertain expression, said, “Sorry.”

“What do I tell him?” Keith said, passing the phone to Lotor so he didn’t have hovering so close to him.

“Call me back,” Lotor said, punctuating each word as he typed them.

They waited. Then Lotor’s ringtone, a soothing melody of wind chimes and rain, sounded. Lotor handed Keith the phone.

Holding his breath, Keith answered and put the phone to his ear. He didn’t release his breath. Lotor raised his eyebrows as if to say, “Well?”

Keith didn’t know why he didn’t speak. He didn’t think he was unprepared for whatever confrontation would undoubtedly happen. The worst had already happened. Right?

“Hello?” Lance said.

There. His voice. Keith released his breath.

“It’s me,” Keith said.

Lance made a bitten off sound of surprise.

“Please don’t hang up,” Keith blurted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said. It wasn’t right and I take it back. It’s not true either. I don’t hate you. I like you. A lot. Be my friend.” To soften the demanding edge to his final words, he added, “Please.”

Lotor was smiling the whole time, but something must’ve struck him as wrong in the ensuing silence, because a glaze momentarily washed over his eyes. He moved back an inch from Keith, warring with a thought. Keith frowned, gestured sharply--then caught himself and softened his hand waving--and held Lotor’s wrist. He needed support. Lotor, realizing this, didn’t leave, but didn’t move closer either. Good. Keith didn’t want him too close or too far. He wanted him  _ right there _ . On the edge of his personal bubble.

“Did he hang up?” Lotor whispered.

Keith shook his head. There was breathing on Lance’s end of the line.

“I have lots of things to say,” Lance said, his voice inching higher on the anger spectrum with each word. “But first, why the  _ fuck  _ does Lotor have my number? I should be in the number one spot of his Do Not Call List in all caps. Add the fireball emoji--and the gun and the explosion emojis.”

Lotor’s expression was mostly confusion, a little amusement, though there wasn’t any clarity that said he had heard any of Lance’s explosion.

“You rejected my calls, so I used Lotor’s phone,” Keith said.

“Great.” Lance sighed. “Is he with you right now?”

Keith smiled. “If I hang up, will you answer my phone?”

“If you promise to delete my number from Lotor’s phone.”

“I promise.”

Keith hung up and deleted Lance’s number from the call history. He thanked Lotor and returned the phone. Lotor locked the screen and pocketed it without looking away from Keith. Again, he smiled, but it wasn’t true.

“He likes you,” Lotor said.

Keith thought he’d have to inject effort into his answering smile, but thinking of Lance and the chance he had to mend their relationship made his smile as real as Lotor’s was fake.

“ _ Likes  _ likes,” Lotor said, his smile becoming genuine--but tinged with mischief. “He’s crushing on you.”

Keith’s smile dropped into an “o” of surprise. He backed from Lotor, reaching blindly for his desk, for his phone.

“You’re clueless,” Lotor said. He shook his head, laughed, rolled his eyes. 

Keith’s stomach hardened like it did when he sparred. It was one of the basics of fighting. To avoid getting the air knocked out of you, you turned your gut into a shell of natural protective armor.

“I didn’t tell you before because I thought I’d regret trespassing Lance’s right to confidentiality,” Lotor said. Again, he rolled his eyes. Some of those words must have been Lance’s, spoken during the confrontation at the Academy.

“He didn’t hide it,” Lotor said. “I was teasing him about the eyes he made at you when you weren’t looking. He blew up, told me to shut up because I didn’t know shit about him and you, and he started ranting about how he knew what I was doing--whatever that means--so he was going to watch me like a hawk. At that point I wasn’t listening because he’d already confirmed what I thought. He’s crushing hard...and he sees me as a threat.”

Keith’s phone started ringing. Lance was calling.

“You’ll have to try harder to push him away,” Lotor said. “Saying you hate him isn’t enough.”

The ringtone was still going. Keith realized Lance was awaiting an answer. Even as he processed Lotor’s words--which couldn’t be true, could they?--he answered the call and nearly slammed the phone against his ear. Lance couldn’t  _ like  _ like Keith. Not with the way they fought. It wasn’t…. Unless….

“Hi,” Keith said. “It’s me, Keith.”

“Really?” Lance said. “Are you sure you aren’t Lotor?”

There was a humor in the lilt of Lance’s voice. Keith relished it. He wanted to hear it in person, to see Lance’s lips shape each word, to feel the comforting warmth of Lance’s presence. It had been a day. A day was too long when they were fighting. They weren’t now, but--

“Keith, I’m kidding,” Lance said. “I’m sorry if that came out--”

“No, it’s fine,” Keith said.

Lotor was watching him, and though Lance was speaking far softer than before, Keith had the sinking feeling that Lotor heard everything. None of it was for him. Not Lance’s humor, not his voice, not his apology, not this conversation. This was Lance and Keith’s moment.

Lotor had given his support. Now Keith wanted him out.

“Hold on,” Keith said. Lowering his phone just a bit from his ear, he asked Lotor, “Can you give us privacy, please?”

Lotor left with a fake smile. Just that. No words.

“He’s gone,” Keith said.

“The evil has been defeated,” Lance said.

“Meme?” 

“Meme,” Lance said. “You realize we did a play on the most popular quote from  _ The Fault in Our Stars _ ?”

“Quotes.”

Lance laughed.

“I sort of kicked him out of my room so he didn’t look happy,” Keith said, taking a seat at his desk, “but...I don’t care.”

“I heard. You said ‘please’ rather awesomely. It was more than 50% demanding.”

“Really?” Keith recalled the way Lotor had left. He laughed. Yeah, Lance was right. “I thought it was kind.”

“Nah, not really. Did you even cover the speaker? It sounded like you were talking right into the phone, like you didn’t give a shit if he knew I heard him getting the boot.”

“I lowered the phone a little.”

“You beast.”

Keith liked this, when they weren’t arguing, and they were just being.

“When are you coming back?” Keith said.

“Sunday night.” Lance made an exaggerating thinking sound. “But we can hang out sooner.” A pause. “If that’s why you’re asking. If you want time alone, that’s totally cool. I won’t press you on that.”

“Don’t assume things,” Keith said, suddenly filled with a courage he hadn’t known he could ever possess. “I want to meet your dogs.”

“Woah,” Lance said. “My dogs. Wow. That’s not too fast for us? We just got out of our first fight.”

Lotor’s words of crushing and confidentiality floated in Keith’s mind. If he hadn’t been joking, it was only right for Keith to pretend he’d never heard anything. Lance deserved the secrecy.

“Please?” Keith said, his voice stretching in a way he’d never used with Lance.

Thinking Lance deserved confidentiality was totally different from putting it in action. It was difficult to  _ not  _ let Lotor’s words affect Keith. There was all the possibility that Lance wasn’t crushing.

“I’m like two and half hours from you,” Lance said.

“Give me your address.”

“I’ll come pick you up.”

“No, I’m driving.” Keith’s heart started pounding. He didn’t know why. He pressed his index and middle fingers to the pulse point under his jaw. Maybe it was the power of knowing Lance  _ liked  _ like him. (Possibly. It was  _ absolutely possible  _ Lance didn’t like him  _ like that _ .) When you knew things--intimate things--about people they didn’t think you knew, you became a superhero.

“Are you sure?” Lance said.

Keith hadn’t driven that long on his own. Ever.

“Yes,” Keith said firmly. He’d do it even though the idea of sitting in a car for so long made his insides squirm. “I’ll take breaks.”

“You’ll be okay driving back?” Lance said.

Oh, right. Keith stupidly hadn’t realized he had to drive back.

“Crap,” Keith said.

“It’s okay,” Lance said. “Sunday night isn’t too far.”

A memory surfaced in Keith’s head. “What if I slept over?”

Lance’s gasp was so soft, Keith had probably imagined it.

“You mentioned it before break,” Keith said. “You might have been joking. I don’t remember.”

“I didn’t think you’d be up for that,” Lance said, his words balloon-light with wonder. “You’re willing to sleep over for--Thursday, Friday, Saturday-- _ three  _ nights?”

“If you’ll have me.” Keith nibbled on his lip. He had the strangest sensation of his stomach melting into his guts. It was like falling in a dream--only the stomach-pitting drop was drawn out into something almost bearable.

“I’ll ask my parents,” Lance said. “And my dogs. Be right back.”

There was a rustle of air, fabric, and Keith imagined Lance had tossed his phone onto his bed.

Keith’s hands, suddenly sweaty, started trembling. He put his phone on speaker and put it on his desk. Pressing his moist palms to his thighs, the energy transferred from his hands to his legs, which started jiggling uncontrollably.

Lance liked him.

_ Possibly. _

Possibly wasn’t enough to keep Keith’s thoughts from spiraling crazily into other thoughts. Silly thoughts. If Lance liked Keith, then he liked Keith’s presence. He liked looking at Keith. He liked speaking with Keith. He liked  _ touching  _ Keith. Did he want to hold Keith’s hand? Did he want to kiss Keith’s hand?

Keith stroked the prominent vein on the back of his right hand and imagined Lance pressing a kiss there. Lance would crack a joke afterward. He’d say something ridiculous like, “Greetings, m’lady. Ever so sweet your supple flesh tastes,” and pull Keith down to swap saliva.

“They said yes!” Lance shouted through the speaker, jerking Keith into reality.

“I’ll head over right now,” Keith said. “Send your address.”

“Will do. See you soon! My babies can’t wait to lick your face.”

Keith got the address through text shortly after hanging up. He input it into Google Maps. The travel time if he left now was around two hours and twenty minutes. There were stops along the way. Gas stations, resting spots, restaurants.

As he packed his things into a carry-on bag, Lance texted him:  **I can stay on the phone with you while you drive. Put me on speaker :)**

Keith didn’t respond until he was in his car.  **_Thanks! I’m about to go. See you soon!_ **

**Drive safely!**

#

Thirty minutes into the drive, Keith started to question his motives for suddenly deciding to stuff a bag full of clothes and toiletries and take a two-and-a-half hour road trip to Fremont for a three-night sleepover with a guy who possibly was crushing on him. Possibly was the word of the day. Lance had a crush on him. Possibly.  _ Possibly _ .  **_Possibly._ **

Keith’s insides were squirming, his guts wriggling like they’d suddenly become snakes. He loved it. It was better than anxiety’s serpentine hold. He had never suspected anyone of having a crush on him. (Yes, he had truly believed Shiro liked him romantically, but he wasn’t counting it out of embarrassment. And counting it would destroy the novelty of Lance being the first possible crusher on Keith.) Statistically, he knew others had crushed on him before Lance (if Lance indeed liked him), but this was absolutely different. This was someone who Keith was having an extended sleepover with, who had dogs that Keith knew he would love, who had a passion for martial arts and sparred well with Keith, and who looked...good.

A giggly laugh bubble up Keith’s throat. His smile tasted sour--in a good way. His eyes watered, and how pathetic was that? Someone liked him enough to consider him as a romantic partner (possibly), and he was ready to burst into tears of joy.

Yes, this was a rush, Keith knew. The romantic version of sugar rush. This didn’t mean they’d make a good pairing. They clashed too often and even Keith, with his zero experience in relationships, knew that wasn’t healthy. But what if they fought because of something else? Something hidden that once confronted, would blossom into something beautiful?

Ridiculous, Keith thought, but what if they clashed because….

He giggled again. No, it was too silly to consider.

His thoughts kept him busy until there was an hour left. He hit some traffic, and feeling the beginnings of anxiety in his veins, he called Lance and put him on speaker.

“How’s the drive?” Lance said.

“I’ve got an hour left, including traffic.”

“Almost there! Did you take any breaks?”

A sporty car cut in front of Keith. The guy waved an apology or a thank you at Keith. Smiling, Keith waved back.

“Not yet,” Keith said. “I don’t think I will.”

“Are you doing okay? Don’t feel pressured to hurry.”

Keith smiled at the softness of Lance’s voice. “I’m great. I just want someone to talk with until I get out of traffic. I feel like I’m going nowhere.”

“And hearing me blab is supposed to make you feel better?”

“Yes, so blab some more.”

“Okay.” Lance whistled. “Let’s see. What to blab about…. Oh, the weather is nice today. We can play with my dogs in the yard. They like fetch and tug-a-war and tag. Uh…. They like chicken and rice. My mom usually mixes white rice or chicken with their kibble for dinner.”

“Mine, too,” Keith said. “Though, they’ll eat almost anything. They always give puppy eyes when my family eats. They’ll sit next to our chairs and stare until we toss them scraps.”

“Do they jump on the table if you don’t push in your chairs?” Lance said.

“No, they’re trained to stay on the ground. Do yours?”

“You kidding? They freaking parkour. Sometimes I don’t think they’re from our world. Their owners probably got fed up so they abandoned them on another planet. How wild would that be? Alien dogs. Just as good as Earth dogs, only they can do weirder stuff like pee while doing a pawstand and parkour on furniture.”

“What’s a pawstand?” Keith said, already knowing the answer. Still, he wanted to hear Lance’s delivery.

“A doggy handstand, duh. It’s not like they have hands.”

A familiar warmth filled Keith’s core. He had missed Lance and that confident lilt in his voice that suggested a lifetime of humor. For the rest of the hour, Lance stayed on the line. They didn’t always talk. Sometimes they were silent, Keith driving and Lance watching TV, and sometimes Lance started talking about random things like martial arts choreography in movies. Keith would talk back, infrequently at first, and by the time Keith was pulling off the freeway and navigating side streets, he was talking just as much as Lance.

“Don’t misunderstand what I’m saying,” Keith was saying. “I really enjoy the club. It’s fun to have a place off-campus to work off stress with you and the Voltron Squad. But that’s it. I don’t like being with anyone else.”

“You’re really talking,” Lance said. “I feel like I should be recording this to put in an audio scrapbook. Keith Starts Talking is what I’ll title it.”

“Did you not hear me?” Keith said, pulling onto Lance’s street.

The houses here reminded Keith of Cupertino. In Silicon Valley, houses cost millions but were small and built on tiny lots. He wondered if Lance’s family bought or rented their house, and if they had inherited it from a grandparent. As he coasted around a corner, he wondered if he’d ever make enough money to buy a house in the Bay Area. He might end up relocating to a cheaper state. His parents didn’t want him to leave California, though. “Once you leave, it will be much harder to come back,” his father had warned a hundred times. “You’ll have to save enough to find housing, and you’ll have to compete for high-paying jobs. Six-figures or more a year if you want to live comfortably. This is why you are taking a Business program. You will network with other professionals, you will have professors to connect you to internships and jobs, you will learn how to invest--do not rent, it’s a waste of money….”

“Did you not hear  _ me _ ?” Lance said. “Earth to Keith. You’re in front of my house. Come out and--”

Keith hung up. He was parked in front of Lance’s house, a beige one-story house with white trim and a brown roof. Lance was standing on the concrete porch holding his phone and a two-split leash attached to the collars of two gray mini-poodles. Shrek and Barry. The alien dogs. Keith’s heartstrings thrummed at the sight of smiley Lance in a baggy t-shirt and basketball shorts and his two doggies.

Unable to hold back, Keith rushed from his car to Lance, stopping when the poodles strained on their leashes to reach him.

“Oh, they’re so cute,” Keith said, kneeling to pet them. “Which one is Barry?”

“Yellow collar,” Lance said. “Shrek is green.”

Both dogs presented their bellies to him. He scratched and rubbed and cooed.

“Just a warning,” Lance said. “Shrek might flash his red lipstick--oh he’s doing it.”

Keith withdrew his hand sharply. Shrek whined and wriggled on the concrete walkway.

“Does he normally do that?” Keith said, averting his eyes.

“When people rub him for the first time, there’s like a fifty-percent chance he’ll pop one. At least he doesn’t have balls. He can’t nut.” Lance squatted next to Keith and rubbed Barry’s belly. “This one can pee in a pawstand. Huh, can’t you? Yeah, you can, my little bumblebee.”

Lance smiled at Keith, and the way his skin crinkled around his eyes made Keith want to hug him and say he was sorry over and over again.

“I’m sorry,” Keith said.

“You already apologized.” Lance rolled Berry and Shrek onto their paws. “It’s cool.”

They pet the dogs for a bit, then Lance stood and said, “My family’s inside waiting for you. Want to meet them?”

“Yeah, but first--” Keith got to his feet and hugged Lance.

“A surprise hug?” Lance said. “Oh boy.”

Barry and Shrek stood on their back paws and drummed their front paws against Keith’s legs.

“They’re jealous,” Lance said softly, like he was trying not to stir his body against Keith’s. “You don’t have to do this, you know, to make me forgive you.”

“I’m your friend,” Keith said, stepping back, hands sliding to Lance’s shoulders. “Friends hug, don’t they?”

Lance chuckled. “Looks like I have the wrong friends. Do you need help bringing your stuff in?”

“I can do it.”

“Sweet.” Lance tugged the leash, pulling Shrek and Barry toward the house. “I’ll see you inside.”

Keith grabbed his bag from the trunk, smiling all the while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to the people who commented even after 2+ months of no updates. you got me writing again.  
> follow me on tumblr (@king-lotor) for voltron posts (mostly klance; no hate, discourse, shaladin, or politics)  
> i'm participating in zines and a big bang, so keep an eye open on my tumblr for updates--


	17. submit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to aestover (ao3)/s-tover (tumblr) for her help with korean!keith, and to varevare (ao3, tumblr) for her help with spanish!lance. and shoutout to you readers for commenting on my fic and giving me drive to continue.

Keith felt a perverse joy in taking that first step into Lance’s house. He had seen Lance half-naked, but going inside in his home so he could eventually sleep inside was a different type of nudity. Home went beyond flesh. It was the blood, muscle, and bone of Lance’s personal life. Inside it smelled like sunlight, warm and filling for the soul. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the giant windows in the living room to the left of the marble tiled entryway.

Shrek and Barry yipped at each other and, freed from their leashes, chased each other over the creamy leather couches arranged around a squat coffee table. Magazines covered its surface, fanned out like the displays in the waiting lobby of Keith’s dentist and optometrist. On its bottom shelf was a rectangular mirrored box filled to overflowing with video games. Keith didn’t recognize the few games that spilled on the shelf, crooked like they really had fallen out of the box.

To the left was a doorless closet and a shoe rack inside that held more shoes and sandals and boots than there were spaces. Keith left his duffle bag on the ground and put his shoes inside, upside down on top of a black and white pair of Nikes. The shoes stashed on top of others all had their soles facing upward to keep the dirt from traveling inside other shoes. Some were wrapped in bags, like a pair of high heels whose vibrant red color radiated through the opaque plastic.

“My sisters are hiding in their old rooms.” Love showed very plainly through Lance’s eye roll. “That’s where they’re staying while I’m on break. When I leave for LU, they’ll fly back to SoCal and their fancy jobs. My parents are in the kitchen waiting for you. Dad’s doing some work on his laptop and Mom’s cleaning the kitchen. Gotta make everything nice and pretty for you, especially after that drive.”

It had been Keith’s longest drive with him in the driver’s seat. He had never imagined he’d pull something off like that, especially on his own. If the thought had crossed his mind, it would have been filled with chest-tightening fears of car wrecks and missed restroom stops and wrong exits. His blood chilled. So much could have gone wrong.  _ So much _ . But he had gone without thinking much about the consequences. He had gone fueled by knowledge of Lance’s  _ possible  _ secret, and the need to see Lance’s face and hear his laugh not through a phone, but through naked air.

“Where should I take this?” Keith picked up his duffle bag at the same time as Lance. Their hands overlapped, Lance’s on top, and they stared at each other when nobody let go of the fabric handles.

“I’ll take it.” Lance nudged his fingers underneath Keith’s. “You’re our guest. I’m your chauffeur.”

“Chauffeurs drive.”

“I’m also your luggage boy.”

“It’s just a bag.”

“Then let me carry it.” Lance clearly was trying not to smile. Keith couldn’t see why, but he matched Lance’s efforts and stayed straight faced.

Keith tightened his hold, trapping Lance’s fingers. He lifted up, and Lance did too, and they stared at each other with quivering mouths that wanted to let out bubbling laughter.

“My room is down this hall.” Lance pointed at the hallway that was around the wall of the living room. To the left was an opening that led to the kitchen and dining room and a small social space that had the door to a grassy backyard. 

Noises of tableware and sporadic keyboard typing came from the left. Lance’s parents were there. His  _ parents _ . The man and woman who had raised him. Who were paying for his tuition. Who were letting Keith stay over for three nights despite never meeting him until this afternoon.

“Should I say hi first?” Keith said.

“Sisters called dibs.” Lance tugged Keith toward the hallway. Shrek and Barry trotted behind them, occassionaly bumping their noses against Keith’s ankles. They went past mismatching photo frames of Lance’s family throughout the years. There were baby photos, kid photos, teen photos, and adult photos. “I told you about them, right? There’s three. All older.”

Keith remembered Lance mentioning them and their names. That and… “You and a sister share a room.”

“Yeah, unfortunately.” They turned a corner and went to the end of the hall, where a ceiling-to-floor window showed a sliver of the backyard, including a persimmon tree. Against the dark wood fence were tomato bushes.

To the left was a propped open door, its stop a wooden wedge. White poster paper covered the door and was decorated with cartoon and anime stickers, bumper stickers supporting social movements like religious coexistence and animal welfare, and photos of Barry and Shrek.

Lance tore the bag from Keith’s grip, which was loose from the shock of taking in the spread of Lance’s room.

It was long and narrow, big enough to fit two full-sized beds at either ends of the room. The floor was a peachy carpet imprinted with the tread marks of a vacuum. At the center of the room were two back-to-back desks with laptops and lamps and organizers full of office supplies. And against the poster-covered wall was a vanity with an array of hair and makeup products strewn about the dressing table.

Lance put Keith’s bag down at the foot of the blue bed. The other was red, and that must’ve been the sister’s bed. The dogs raced up the doggie ramp propped against the side of Lance’s bed. They plopped down on the pillows covered by the comforter, and watched Keith with unblinking eyes.

“Where’s your sister?” Keith said.

A door opened down the hall, letting out the sound of a toilet flushing.

“Wash your hands!” Lance shouted. “Sexy Keith is here.”

“About time!” Then came the sound of rushing water.

Lance cocked a curious brow. “Is that cool? Sexy Keith?”

“Was that your idea?” Keith smiled unevenly, hoping it looked okay with a raised eyebrow.

“No, she suggested it after I showed that video of you playing with Daisy. Her name’s Beatriz. She’s living here while she looks for jobs in SoCal.” He sighed. “Very unoriginal. I’ll be the first Sanchez to stay in the Bay Area.”

“Because you’re weak for the meme dogs.” A young woman with pin-straight black hair and a navy blue floor-skimming dress walked in--followed by two other stunning women.

“It’s a welcome party, huh?” Lance said. “Mom and Dad coming in?”

“Hopefully not. Your room stinks,” the shortest woman said. She was an inch or so shorter than Keith and was all curves in short shorts and a t-shirt. “I’m Isabela, the middle oldest.”

“I’m Beatriz, the youngest and coolest,” the woman in the navy blue dress said.

“And I’m Carmen, the oldest.” Her golden dress draped over her belly, which was rounded from pregnancy.

Keith turned to Lance. “You’re going to be an uncle.”

Lance put a hand to his mouth. “Never ask if a woman is pregnant.”

“But she’s obviously--” Keith blushed at the sisters’ laughter. “Sorry.”

Carmen rubbed her belly. “Lance suggested I name the boy Keith.”

Two things hit Keith at once. One, that Lance had made the ridiculous suggestion, which had to be a joke because no way should someone name their baby after a brother’s friend, and two, that Carmen had said “boy” which meant she was having twins and one was a girl.

“He’s working it out.” Beatriz took a seat at the desk on the red side of the room. She dragged a finger over the fingerpad of her laptop. “Meanwhile I’m working on my job search.”

“Most people get jobs through networking,” Isabel said.

“My work has openings,” Carmen said. “I can connect you.”

“No thanks, guys. I’m doing this on my own.” Beatriz typed rapidly and smashed the Enter key. “I’ll be out of the nest by the end of the year.”

“Anyway.” Lance wrapped an arm over Keith’s shoulder and pulled their sides flush together. “This is Keith, my roommate for the break. He’s my friend. We spar together. Once he tried to punch me in the face. It was awesome. Another time he tried to heel stomp my wrist. That was also awesome. He also thought I was dead once, which was kind of disconcerting because he didn’t really react. I was expecting a scream. Or a sob. Maybe a confession.”

“When did that happen?” Keith said.

“I fell down the stairs.”

“I didn’t think you were dead.”

“You came to check on my body.”

“I thought you were unconscious.”

“You thought I was dead.”

Lance’s arm was still over Keith’s shoulder, partially draped in front of his chest. Keith took Lance’s hand, lifted it above his head so he could duck under, and manipulated it to fold against Lance’s back.

“Uh oh.” Beatriz propped her chin on her fist. “Should I call the cops?”

“I like being manhandled.” Lance purred like a kitten. 

“Gross.” Beatriz returned to her laptop.

“I’ll erase that from my memory,” Isabela said.

Keith dropped Lance’s arm like it was on fire. The roll of Lance’s voice in the back of his mouth had stunned his attention. His hand, bare, was on Lance’s arm, also bare. And Lance liked it. Unless it was a joke. It most likely was a joke. Most things were jokes with Lance. But the context of Lotor’s words-- Keith had to admit to himself now or he’d go crazy with denial. He wanted Lance to want him. He wanted Lance to be speaking the truth. He wanted and he wanted and he wanted--until Beatriz’s comment registered.

Gross.

Keith put distance between him and Lance. He acted like it was the normal standing-aside after playful roughhousing, heading to his duffle bag to search through the contents for something he didn’t need.

The silence behind him was telling of a hidden conversation. He grabbed the handle of something in his bag and turning as he stood, saw Beatriz getting a stern scolding from her older sisters, who were communicating with hissing whispers.

“A brush?” Lance was leaning against his desk, detached from whatever was going on with his sisters.

“My hair needs it.” Keith ran it through his hair, feeling so stupid it was a wonder his face didn’t burst into flames.

“You do the hundred strokes a day thing?”

“Approximately.” Keith held out the brush. “Your hair could use some brushing.”

“No!” Beatriz stood, cutting off Carmen’s stern whispering. “The lice!”

Keith brought the brush to his chest, protectively cupping its head with his hand.

“I don’t have lice!” Lance shouted as Beatriz and Isabela cracked up. “They’re lying. It’s a joke. A stupid joke. Even I, Memaster Lance Sanchez, admit there are stupid jokes.”

“Memaster,” Isabela said to her sisters. “He’s a memaster.”

“I thought it was pronounced  _ me master _ .” Carmen’s eyes creased with her gentle smile. “He told us he’s been teaching you about memes. I thought he was kidding.”

“He’s a good teacher.” Keith ran his brush through his hair again. He needed to move under the stares of all the Sanchez siblings. They were four young, beautiful people. Keith didn’t understand what it was about beauty that made him anxious, made him want to clam up.

“Meme-mas-ter.” Lance punctuated each syllable with a swish of his finger.

“I’ve always wanted a memaster for a brother,” Beatriz said.

“He can put it on his grave. Beloved husband, father, and memaster,” Isabela said.

Rubbing the plump swell of her belly, Carmen came up to Keith for a handshake. He stayed back a step, overly conscious of the babies. They were precious, only protected by stretched skin, and he worried his proximity would somehow harm them.

“Welcome to the family,” Carmen said.

Keith’s throat suddenly felt like a dry and cracked riverbed.

“See you later.” Isabela headed out on a long yawn. “I’ve got some work to finish. Damn boss won’t leave me alone, but at least I have one.”

“Ugh.” Beatriz draped herself over the backrest of her chair and grasped at the ceiling. “Somebody hire me. I’m the worst. An unemployed millennial living at home in her childhood bedroom.”

A hole opened beneath Keith. He could feel himself starting to fall into the dreadful thoughts that weighed him every time he thought too long about his future and its uncertainties and the disappointments he’d bring his family--but Beatriz laughed, then moaned and slapped her cheeks. And the playful sounds brought him back to his feet.

He noticed Lance watching him, worry contaminating his smile. Keith smiled and nudged Lance’s side with his elbow. Lance responded with a soft backhand to Keith’s thigh.

“I might have to go into retail.” Beatriz dragged a finger down her screen. She brushed dust off her fingers. “Corporate is too hard, especially because I have no internships. Gah.”

“Then work retail.” Lance twisted the brush out of Keith’s hands, using the joint manipulation of a basic knife release.

“But that’s not enough for an apartment.”

“Get a roommate.”

“My own brother doesn’t know me.”

“She’s an introvert with strangers,” Lance told Keith. He plucked hair from the brush’s spokes. “I’m E-squared, extrovert inside and outside. She’s E to the first power, extrovert only inside. You’re I-squared.”

“How do you know what I’m like at home?” Keith said.

“I’m guessing, but it suits you.” Lance dropped the tangled ball of Keith’s hair in the wastebasket under his desk that was lined with a plastic shopping bag. “I get vibes about what you like and what’d you do in hypothetical situations. Like, if there was an earthquake right now, you wouldn’t do anything for a couple seconds. You’d stand shock still until I pulled you under a table. If there was a big earthquake, you’d dive under my desk. If the Big One happens, you’d grab Shrek and Barry then run outside and lay flat on the lawn. You love dogs, and you’d risk your life for them.”

Beatriz snorted. “You’re a keeper, brother dear.”

“And you’re a background prop. Hush. Me and Keith are the main characters. We’re the focus of the camera. Stay blurry, please.”

Keith leaned back against Lance’s bed, seeking out the jut of the wooden bed frame to sit on.

“It’s better up here.” Lance crawled on top of his bed. The dogs rose from their nap and greeted him with wet kisses.

And when Keith made the first motion of climbing on, the dogs jumped at him and licked at his face. He rocked back onto his feet, but Lance grabbed his hand and pulled him into the fray of wet kisses.

Walking on his knees and avoiding crushing the dogs when they touched ground in between jumps wasn’t easy. Lance grabbed Shrek and held the wriggling body to his chest, peppering the tiny head with kisses. Keith plucked Barry out of a jump. He and Lance sat against the headboard with the dogs in their laps, their bottoms making seats out of the pillows.

“How much cooler would it be if your dogs were here too?” Lance said.

Keith let Barry rest his paws on his chest and lap at his chin. Angling his head up to keep his mouth away from that tiny, slippery tongue, he realized his home was less than thirty minutes away. His parents had banished him until winter thinking that’d help him stay independent and encourage him to make true friends. If his parents knew he had made a friend, maybe they’d change their minds. They couldn’t turn down a friend. Keith’s first college friend.

Barry pawed at Keith’s chin, reaching for his mouth.

“Give him a kiss,” Lance said.

“Will that make him stop?” Keith lowered his head a touch, and Barry jumped to slather his mouth with tongue and saliva.

“Nope, but it’s cute.” Lance had his phone in hand and was recording.

“Stop,” Keith said, but it sounded more like  _ staaaaahp  _ because Barry dove into Keith’s mouth.

Keith swatted a hand in the general area of Lance’s hand as he turned his head away from the phone and Barry, guarding his head with a triangle arm block. Barry couldn’t breach the shield and gave up. Keith lowered his guard as Barry crawled onto his lap and curled into a ball.

“He likes you,” Lance said, releasing Shrek from his arms. “And so does Shrek.”

Shrek clambered onto Keith’s lap, next to Barry, and the two brothers dozed away.

Keith rubbed their heads. Barry and Shrek were as soft as Danbee and Pado, though their fur was curly and thick. He rubbed their floppy ears, rubbing the fur that draped from the fleshy tips of their ears between his fingers. His dogs loved ear rubs, and though the mini-poodles were drifting into sleep, he rubbed underneath their ears. They tilted their heads, and Shrek’s rear leg kicked out repeatedly, as Keith’s dogs did when he hit the right spot.

Lance had been silent the whole time. Keith hadn’t heard anything from Beatriz either, not even the clicking of her keyboard. Beatriz was scrolling a finger down her screen, hunched like she was trying to hide behind her laptop. And Lance was watching Keith with the softest eyes and smile.

“We really need to have a doggie playdate,” Lance said.

Keith threaded his fingers through Shrek’s fur. The silky pass of fur between his fingers was heavenly, as was sitting here with Lance and his two dogs.

“Did you meet Mom and Dad yet?” Beatriz said.

“MOM! DAD!” Lance shouted. “COME MEET KEITH.”

Barry’s and Shrek’s ears perked at the noise, but they otherwise stayed calm on Keith’s lap.

The creaking of wood under feet and the deep murmurs of a man had Keith stiffening. Had Lance told them about the rough path to their friendship? Did they know about the headlock Keith had taken too far?

“Hey, man. Don’t worry.” Lance put a hand over Keith’s, which rested on Barry’s slowly rising and falling torso. “My parents are chill without the trying-too-hard cringe.”

“Hello Keith, my name is Dad,” said a rough and playful voice.

Keith smiled at the man and woman who came in and stood near the open doorway. They looked around his parents’ age, at the edge of their forties. Mr. Sanchez was a short man with skin darker than Lance’s and a close-trimmed beard that was either meant to be styled short or was being grown out to a full beard. Like Lance, he had expressive eyes and a mouth that looked most natural in a joking smile.

“Good afternoon,” Mrs. Sanchez said. She was taller than her husband by almost a foot, which Keith hadn’t expected, but now that he saw it, he thought the height difference fit them perfectly. Lance had gotten his eyes and mouth and hair from his father, and everything else from his mother, who looked like him but decades older and more feminine.

“I’d come over to give a handshake but it looks like you’ve got your hands full,” Mr. Sanchez said.

Barry and Shrek were snoozing away, their tails twitching every so often. Keith curled his fingers into their curly fur.

“I love them,” Keith said.

Beatriz squealed. She clamped a hand over her mouth. “Sorry.”

“Same,” said Lance, looking at Keith like he’d seen something rare and incredible happen.

Keith’s cheeks warmed. He hoped they didn’t turn red or pink or purple or green.

“Are you finally moving out?” Mr. Sanchez said.

“I dreamed I did. Then I woke up and heard Lance snoring and I realized I was still in hell. I think I cried.”

“I don’t snore.” Lance made a stern face.

Beatriz made loud piggy snorts.

“Fuck off.”

“Language.” Mrs. Sanchez’s dull tone said she didn’t expect Lance to make any changes.

“Darn off, Ma.”

“HAH!” Beatriz snorted again.

“Shove it, binch.” Lance flipped her off.

Mrs. Sanchez sighed. “I’m too tired for this.” The poor woman looked like she’d been in the gutter today.

“As you can see, Keith, we have a lovely family,” Mr. Sanchez said.

“I’m sorry if I came at a bad time.”

Like the ceiling had suddenly caved in, everyone flinched backwards.

“What are you talking about?” Beatriz said, eyebrows pinched and voice offended.

Keith felt attacked. His stomach turned into a blackhole. “I meant that Mrs. Sanchez looks too tired for having a guest over.”

“What?” Beatriz looked to Lance like he might have a translation for Keith’s fumbling words.

“I wasn’t planning on coming until this morning. I dropped myself on you.” As though Barry and Shrek could sense Keith’s distress through his sweaty hands, they woke and started lapping at his fingers with slow comforting licks.

“No, bud, don’t say that,” Mr. Sanchez said. “We’re honored to have you here. Lance talks so much about you. He gushes poetry and purple...purple… What’s the other word?”

“Prose,” Beatriz said.

“Poetry and purple prose.”

“And memes,” Lance added. “Don’t forget my signature move.”

Mr. Sanchez made a fist at his side.

“Class A violation. Misusing a meme.” Lance pointed finger guns at his dad.

Mr. Sanchez put his hands over his head. Mrs. Sanchez sighed again.

“We’re eating out for dinner,” Mrs. Sanchez said. “I’m too tired to cook.”

Lance bounced onto his knees. “Olive Garden!”

“Noooooo,” Beatriz groaned.

“Breadsticks!” Lance clutched the air between him and Beatriz. “Endless salad!”

“We’ll leave at six,” Mrs. Sanchez said.

“Olive Garden.” Mr. Sanchez pointed at his eyes then at Beatriz. “Be there or be square.”

“But you’re driving?” Beatriz said as he left with her mother.

“We’re getting authentic Italian tonight. Can’t change it.” Lance dropped his hand on Shrek’s head and rubbed.

“Authentic.” Beatriz closed her laptop. “I’m so appalled I can’t job search. Thanks, little bro.”

“You’re welcome, big sis.”

Beatriz ripped her pink-cased phone off the table, glaring fiery daggers at Lance as she stormed out.

Keith smiled and deposited Shrek onto Lance’s lap. Barry adjusted himself on Keith’s thighs, curling into a ball and resting his head so he could blink puppy eyes at Keith until he got head rubs.

“You’re not dropping on us or whatever that was you said,” Lance said.

A dark hand appeared on Keith’s thigh, so lightly placed it was almost like the phantom touch of a memory forgotten until then. Only...he liked this far more. It was a friendly gesture, not one tinged with other intentions.

“I’m not lying one bit when I say my family is glad you came. They asked a bunch about you. When I mentioned you have a mullet and can make it work, Dad said I  _ had  _ to have you over. Then I showed the Daisy video and Beatriz called you Sexy Keith--don’t disagree, it’s true--and my other sisters said you were cuter than Daisy--which you totally can disagree with, I’m not holding you back on that--and they said to get you over before break ends.”

Keith played with one of Barry’s ears, flopping it forward and backward. Humans and dogs weren’t on the same cute scale. Cuteness when applied to humans at his age was a gentler way of calling someone sexy. A family-friendly version. And speaking of sexy…. 

“You think I’m sexy?” Keith tried to say it with a straight face like it was one of those  _ no homo _ things.

“You asked that yesterday, right before things went to shit.”

“Then let’s start over. You think I’m sexy?”

Lance trailed his eyes down Keith’s body. “Not anymore.”

He was taking the beaten road. The one that led to Keith slamming the door on Lance’s face and saying he hated Lance.

“You said I was cute,” Keith said.

“Yeah, and then you blushed so hard you had apples in your cheeks.”

“You asked why I was smiling so much.”

Lance poked at Keith’s cheekbone with the hand that had been on his thigh. “You’re smiling now.”

“Shut up.” Keith captured Lance’s finger and guided it away.

“Then you asked if I had things to do, we fought over the door, and you said three words that led to a minor conflict...and now we’re here. Friends again.”

Keith still had Lance’s finger in his hold. He adjusted his hold so that he was holding Lance’s hand. “No more fighting. No more yelling. We’re friends now.”

“Friends.” Lance turned their hand holding into a handshake.

#

There were just enough seats in the family van for the seven of them, and Keith and Lance and Beatriz were crammed in the middle row, Keith sandwiched between siblings. Behind them was Mrs. Sanchez and Isabel, and in the honorary passenger seat in the front was Carmen. She needed the room for her belly.

“Put on the Bluetooth,” Lance said as his father backed the van out of the garage.

“Keep the volume down,” Carmen said.

“That’s on Dad. I’m choosing the music.”

“Nothing that’s overplayed on the radio,” Isabel said.

Keith sidled closer to Lance to watch him open a music app and access a playlist tab. He flicked past a couple playlists that Keith couldn’t catch the names of because Lance was too fast. Lance selected the Throwback Thursday playlist.

“But it’s Friday,” Keith said.

“It’s Thursday,” Lance said.

“It feels like a Friday,” Isabel said.

Lance opened a tab and hit shuffle. Drums pounded through the speakers. The van exploded with shrieks and groans. Keith instinctively curled into Lance.

“LANCE.” Mr. Sanchez turned down the volume to zero.

“Sorry!”

Mr. Sanchez increased the volume to lukewarm level.

_ “...to the Love Shack! Love Shack!” _

“This is our song!” Mr. Sanchez said. “Remember, Rosa?”

“Yes, sweetheart,” Mrs. Sanchez said. “Your repulsive dance moves somehow attracted me.”

Lance tipped his head closer to Keith’s and showed him the rest of his playlist. “These are my childhood songs. I was a slut for oldies. Beatles, Queen, Prince, Blondie, if they were a hit I loved them. I also have a bunch of reggaeton. You know Daddy Yankee? No? Wow. Well, you should’ve heard of Ricky Martin and Selena. I’ve got some Rihanna and Beyonce, the definition of middle school dances. What about you?”

Keith didn’t think he had childhood music Lance would recognize. He had listened to whatever was playing on the radio. Kelly Clarkson, Britney Spears, Maroon 5.

“I don’t know,” Keith said.

“Everyone has a childhood.” 

Lance’s face was close and his voice low to be heard over the music. He only needed to hold his phone out an inch to show Keith the screen. The nearness of everything, his face, his voice, his body, made Keith so aware of his own face, his own body.

“Did you go to dances in high school?” Lance said. “Middle school? Any songs that you remember?”

The memories of standing alone and thinking to himself why he bothered coming, even when the tickets were cheap, were enough to render Keith silent. There were a few lyrics he remembered, a few nameless songs. If he heard the tune he might remember. He might think,  _ Oh yeah, this was that slow dance song that was playing when I realized I’d never get a boyfriend if I couldn’t make a single close friend. _

“Not really,” Keith said. “I mostly remember a lot of thumping.”

Lance popped an eyebrow so high Keith was amazed by its graceful arch. “Then what about your family? Did they sing you songs? Anything Korean?”

“My mom sang a couple children’s songs. They were about mountain bunnies and butterflies and sparrows.”

His childhood had mostly been quiet, rarely disturbed. The stillness had never bothered Keith. Some parents were loud, others were quiet. Keith’s family had always been a peaceful unit. His parents rarely raised their voices, never lifted a hand against him. Most of their scolding was about his quiet nature around others. They would cajole him into socializing at church, sometimes offering a sugar donut for every ten minutes he spent with other kids. He could save up inventory, his dad had explained. If he spent thirty minutes with the kids standing around the giant tree in the churchyard, he’d have credits for three donuts. He could have all three at once, one a day, or he could spread them out.

That was the only thing about his parents he hated. Their insistence to make him socialize made him sick. It wasn’t until he joined his tae kwon do school that he found a place to destroy his frustration.

“What do you like to listen to now?” Lance said, almost sadly.

“Don’t pity me.”

“I’m not. You just look sad.”

“I’m not sad. You’re making me feel bad for having a different childhood. Not everyone has a life full of music and loud sisters.” Keith could feel Beatriz listening. Her alertness was like sharp daggers pressing into his neck. There wasn’t anywhere he could look to avoid both siblings’ eyes. Looking straight ahead only gave them equal access to his face.

“Woah,” Beatriz said. “That jaw clench. Lance, you see this?”

“He’s Sexy Keith for a reason.” Lance put a hand against Keith’s jaw. “Can you clench again?”

Lance was nearly cupping Keith’s cheek. His touch was warm, moisturized from the scent-free hand lotion he’d borrowed from Beatriz on their way out to the van. He had taken too great of a dollop and had shared it with Keith, slapping their hands together with a funny squirt that became funnier when Lance rubbed their palms together and waggled his eyebrows at the wet sound. Keith had laughed to cover his blush.

“Clench your jaw.” Lance smiled like he knew what Keith was thinking about.

Keith clenched it, pushing it against Lance’s fingers, and awe crossed Lance’s face.

“Do it again.” Beatriz had her hand against his other jaw. He clenched. Both siblings were amazed.

“You’re like Tom Hiddleston when he’s all Loki’d up,” Beatriz said.

Lance swore under his breath. It sounded like “fuck.”

“Remember that Comic Con jaw clench?” Beatriz said.

“That’s what I’m thinking of right now.” Lance rubbed at Keith’s unclenched jaw. “You should be Loki for Halloween.”

“I have a better idea,” Beatriz said. “He should be Tom Hiddleston being Loki.”

Halloween was less than two weeks away. Keith hadn’t thought about it until now. He hadn’t thought of dressing up until now either.

“You be Loki and I’ll be Thor,” Lance said. “Together we’ll be Thorki.”

“How about no?” Isabela said.

Lance sent an evil look around his headrest at her. “You eavesdropping on me?”

“I agree that Keith should be Tom being Loki, not with you being Thor. The whole Thorki thing is disgusting, no offence, and I cannot believe it’s a ship. They’re  _ brothers _ .”

“Not by blood,” Beatriz said.

“They thought they were real brothers,” Mrs. Sanchez added. “It’s still incest.”

“Did I hear a gross word back there?” Mr. Sanchez said loudly.

Carmen turned down the music. “The babies don’t like it when we war over ships. Why don’t we have Lance dress as Sigyn, Loki’s wife?”

Keith couldn’t hold in his laughter at Lance’s stunned face.

“You can tailor one of my bridesmaid dresses,” Isabela said. “Add a slit for your legs.”

“A wedding veil,” Mr. Sanchez said.

“Make sure you wax your legs.” Beatriz shrieked when Lance reached around Keith to swat at her.

Isabela stuck her hand between Keith’s and Lance’s headrests and grabbed Lance’s ear, pulling him back and away from Beatriz.

“Owwwww.” Lance batted at the hand holding his ear captive.

“Wet Willy!” Beatriz stuck her finger in her mouth and went for Lance’s ear.

Lance shrieked.

Caught in the middle of a sibling battle, which made him glad to be an only child, Keith curled into himself like a turtle hiding in its shell. 

Still shrieking, despite his mother’s calls to be quiet, Lance grabbed Keith’s arm and pulled him in. Keith made a decent shield, repelling Beatriz until Isabela gave up and let Lance’s ear go free. 

Beatriz withdrew and wiped her finger on her dress. “Until next time.”

“There won’t be one.” Lance slipped his arm around Keith’s shoulders. “Loki will protect me.”

Keith couldn’t react. Lance’s arm was heavy--but not uncomfortable. It was impossible to ignore all that heat and muscle against him.

“Can I call you that?” Lance’s breath fanned against Keith’s cheek. Keith inhaled and tasted subtle mint. “Loki?”

Keith’s breath didn’t smell anything as good as mint. He wished for it to smell like nothing.

“But I don’t have a name for you,” Keith said.

It was quiet in the van. Everyone must’ve been listening in.

“Call me Sigyn.”

Beatriz screamed with laughter.

“Ugh, really?” Lance said.

“Is there a pterodactyl back there?” Mr. Sanchez said.

Beatriz covered her mouth. She was smiling so hard her eyes were crescents and the skin around was wrinkled deeply. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” She sounded like she still had a scream left.

“Can we have silence for the rest of the drive?” Carmen said, sounding uneasy.

“Something wrong?” Lance’s face suddenly creased with concern. His arm left Keith. He reached for his phone, which had fallen on the floor during the sibling battle.

“Nothing new. Just a bit of a headache. I think there’s too much energy here.”

“Should we be going out? Maybe we should turn around.” Lance seemed about ready to call an ambulance.

“I’m fine. Let’s just...be quiet.”

The drive was stark silent. Lance vibrated in worry until Keith took his hand. Occasionally, when Keith felt Lance’s nervous energy start to thrum, Keith squeezed his hand, and Lance echoed back with an equally strong squeeze. It gave Lance something to focus on, Keith thought, and when Keith stopped squeezing after a long interval, Lance squeezed.

“What are you doing?” Beatriz whispered, looking over after Lance and Keith smiled at each other. She gasped at their linked hands.

“I’m nervous,” Lance said. “He’s comforting me.”

“Oh, okay.” Beatriz smiled and looked away.

“It’s what friends do,” Keith said with a smile.

“Friends,” Lance said. “Yeah, we’re...we’re friends.”

“I’m going to scream again if you don’t shut up,” Beatriz said, her words short and clipped.

“Friends?” Isabela said.

Mrs. Sanchez made a hushing sound.

Keith didn’t understand Isabela’s and Lance’s uncertain tones, or the worried look Carmen cast their way.

“Guys,” Lance said. “Let’s be quiet.”

“Nobody’s talking but you,” Beatriz said.

“Friends,” Isabela muttered.

“Did I say something wrong?” Keith’s stomach filled with anxious butterflies.

“What a trainwreck,” Beatriz said.

“Nothing.” Lance cupped his other hand around Keith’s curled fingers. “You said nothing wrong. We’re friends, and friends comfort each other.”

The van was uncomfortably silent until they pulled into the parking lot. Mr. Sanchez pulled up in front of the restaurant so everyone could get out and snatch a spot on the waiting list, which was long considering all the people waiting outside.

“What did I say?” Keith asked of Lance as they sat on the plaster structure that held a plant bed.

“Forget it.” Lance bounced his heels off the plaster. “Really, Keith. You shouldn’t worry about it.”

Mrs. Sanchez and Beatriz stood near Carmen, who was sitting on bench vacated by a kind woman who inquired about the pregnancy. Keith thought the woman was pushing her kindness by talking too long, but Carmen appeared to enjoy the soft conversation.

Beatriz sometimes glanced at Keith and Lance, not very subtly, but Keith didn’t think she cared about being caught. She was worried about something. Keith suspected he had gotten on her protective side.

“Lance, I really need to know. It’s not nice keeping me in the dark when it’s clear I know something’s wrong. If I’m your friend, you can’t willingly let me be ignorant, especially when you know what’s going on. Tell me, what did I say?”

“It’s not what you said, it’s what I said. I should’ve kept my mouth shut. Now my family’s reading too far into it.”

Keith couldn’t remember Lance’s exact words, but he knew Lance had agreed on their friendship. His tone had been strange, that was what Keith recalled the most.

“They don’t want us to be friends?” Keith said.

“Yes, no, they…. Ugh, this isn’t something we should talk about now. After dinner when we get home, okay?”

Home, like Lance’s house was Keith’s, and they were living together like the upperclassmen did, rooming together off campus so they could afford the rent.

“Here,” Lance said, unlocking his phone. “Let’s have a memeducation session.”

Keith made a fist. “When you want to have a serious conversation but your friend distracts you with memes.”

There was a buzz in the air that might’ve been the sound of absolute silence, which wasn’t possible given the murmur of conversations around them. Lance’s shocked face might’ve acted as a sort of sound dampener.

“Did I break you?” Keith grinned.

Like a rubber band stretched too far, Lance snapped. Keith gasped at the hard impact of a surprise hug. He grabbed the plaster wall to keep from tipping over. 

The hug was Lance’s fiercest. His face was a warm brand against Keith’s neck, his arms a tight band around Keith’s torso.

“I feel closest to God when I’m surrounded by nature,” Lance said.

The words stirred Keith’s skin. He could feel goosebumps about to pop out.

“Me too, I guess,” Keith said.

“You just ruined my flow,” Lance said. “I had something lined up right after that dramatic pause.”

“Start over.”

“The moment’s already ruined.”

Lance started to disengage from the hug. Keith grabbed his arms, keeping his face near. “Start over.”

“Fine, but it’s not…. It’s lame now that I think about it.” Lance’s laugh was breezy, relaxed. His face, though, was embarrassed. He avoided Keith’s eyes. His eyelashes, Keith noticed, were long and curled and very thick. “I feel closest to God when I’m surrounded by nature, and when I’m with you.” He darted his eyes to Keith’s, and if eyes could blush, his were. “See? It’s cheesy as heck.”

Keith was blushing. He knew that burning in his cheeks was too strong to fight. Let his cheeks turn red. Let Lance see.

“So bad you can’t respond.” Lance grinned, free now that Keith’s grip had weakened.

“I’m shocked.” Keith would never lose out on surprises with Lance in his life.

Lance winked. “Do you want that memeducation session or were you trying to get out of it?”

“I’ll take it.” They had almost a forty-five minute wait until seating. Time would fly with Lance. It was like everyone said. Time flies when you’re having fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we have a few chapters left. i think. okay, it might be several chapters. so like...5, maybe? i don't know, guys. we're nearing the end, that's all.
> 
> and i'm nearing my end too. this is my final year in undergrad, and after that, i'll be doing grad stuff, working toward becoming a professor or whatever. i won't have time for lengthy fanfics. i wrote backhand to help me deal with the uncertainties of life--'cause all of that hits really hard when you're in college. weirdly, backhand made me worse for a bit. it was like my anxiety and depression took viagra and were dry-fucking my life. i considered deleting backhand bc i thought it was channeling all this negative energy. but then i got a support system--believe it or not--in my professors and my martial arts classmates and instructors. it's weird, but i think backhand ultimately paved a path in my life. i don't have a hot martial arts buddy to cozy up with, BUT, i'm surrounded by people who care for me. and it's...wow, this fic.... keith's story truly became my own.
> 
> anyways, please come chat with me on tumblr (king-lotor), and leave comments. i'll respond to them all. i usually don't, but you guys fuel me so.... have at it. :)

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at king-lotor.tumblr.com  
> skype me at rachelmlou  
> and read "The Bridge" under the penname rachel lou :)


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